


Two Songs and Three Serpents

by inquisitor_acorn (acornchild)



Series: The Inquisitor Trevelyan Story [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood and Injury, Drama, Gen, Inquisitor (Dragon Age) Backstory, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Murder Mystery, Ostwick headcanons, Pre-Canon, Rogue Inquisitor - Freeform, Sporadic Attempts at Humor, Trevelyan headcanons, content warnings for each chapter, court intrigue, large Trevelyan family, please read the notes of each chapter, welcome to this fic we have fluff and murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:29:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27513850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acornchild/pseuds/inquisitor_acorn
Summary: Life was not bad for a younger child of the seventh or eighth most important noble family in Ostwick. But times change, and Jonathan learned that the hard way.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: The Inquisitor Trevelyan Story [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1816168
Comments: 15
Kudos: 8





	1. The good match

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is finally! Many thanks to Verdigirl for helping me untangle this!
> 
> Enjoy!

It was late in the afternoon of the festivities.

After the lengthy Chantry sermon that morning, followed by a rather succinct and methodical marriage ceremony, everyone had been escorted to the Ostwick Theatre, where the city's Grand Ballroom awaited its guests for the night. His Lordship, the Teyrn of Ostwick, generously granted use of the venue to the Bayarts and Trevelyans to accommodate all their faraway guests.

But the issue of the atmosphere tonight had nothing to do with the venue or accommodation. All the wedding guests had had plenty of time to settle into a celebratory mood, with plenty of food on the tables, good wine in hand, and an army of Bayart and Trevelyan servants attentive to their every need. Despite this, despite the violins ringing enthusiastically around them, and despite their guests' best intentions, the celebratory mood simply refused to happen. _It may have something to do with skipping every single fun wedding tradition, like smashing the first course plates and kidnapping the bride_ , Marcelle thought mournfully.

At least the cheese tasting had made it. Marcelle folded back the long layers of lace adorning her sleeves, took a small bit of cheese on a stick and dipped it into some jam. Entertainment lacking, the guests had to rely on music and cheese for fun. No wonder the dance floor was mostly empty.

It wasn't even proper evening yet and all Lady Marcelle Ehlgar wanted to do was soak in a lavish lavender bath, then count some nugs to sleep. Anything but what she was actually doing, which was listen to her Lady mother prattle on in various exasperated tones about potential husbands, trade alliances, and how at the very mature age of seventeen, Lady Marcelle should really have more of an interest in the family's affairs. Annoyance really brought out her mother's Orlesian. To make it all worse, Lady Marcelle was suffering through this ordeal alone, as her best friend had abandoned her in favour of stealing a moment of wistful romance with some poetic idiot she had been entertaining on their carriage ride here. Some irrelevant lord or other, fifth cousin of the Trevelyans. As many others were.

So the circumstances were not ideal. Her family had come as guests of the Bayarts, the groom's family, and her mother kept insisting this was an event they should count themselves _"fortunate to attend"_ , with all the nonsense that has been going on, all the alliances that must be made and re-made between noble families. Refugees were still pouring in from Ferelden some years after the Fifth Blight - those who had lost more they could ever hope to rebuild. The shifting sands in their city's landscape left the well-established noble families a little shaky-footed. To hear her mother tell it, she should apparently be sending praises to the Maker for the opportunity to be bored to death counting the number of shades of cream and ivory currently infesting the wedding decorations. _"Be grateful"_ , the voice in her head mocked, to have her mother's rambling in the background, waiting for her crucial meetings, all the while Hylda was dallying with some nobody far less important than her own person. Enough was enough.

"I'm getting some air, mother," she said rising from her seat, taking Lady Ehlgar's dismissive _hmph_ as permission.

Lady Marcelle made her way through the room, crossing the mostly empty dance floor, uncaring of the pairs of guests accidentally tripping in her proximity. She hurried past the guards, who were bouncing from one sore leg to the other, as unentertained as everyone else. She found her way outside into the entrance courtyard, where a lot of the guests were chatting amicably and tiredly on the benches.

She crossed the grassy field at the entrance and followed a winding path around the mansion that lead to the flower garden. The flower planters were neatly arranged on the sides, but slightly withering in the early winds of autumn. In front of her was a pristine stone fountain, pinned to the middle of the garden as if holding it in place. It was round and wide, with carved stone flames streaming water, and surrounded by bright blossoms of Crystal Grace. Perfect place to sit. Hylda had apparently thought the same, for she was sitting on the edge of the fountain, gawking at her fool, who was currently on one knee reading love poetry. _Preposterous._

"Enjoying the party?" Lady Marcelle asked in a deadpan tone, approaching the pair.

"Marci!", her friend squeaked, scandalized.

"My lady!"

Hylda's companion held Marcelle's gaze for a second, but quickly backed away. He nodded to her and fashioned a polite smile.

"It seems time has flown by without us noticing, Lady Hylda. I shan't keep you any longer this evening."

Marcelle took a few steps to the side and let them say their farewells, making promises of dances for later and whatever else. When the farewells were stretching beyond her generous allowance, she grabbed her friend's arm and muttered a quick _"goodbye"_ on both their behalf.

Hylda let herself be pulled to the entrance court and sat down with Marcelle on one of the few unoccupied benches.

"Did you have, to?" she asked reproachfully, but less so than she would have a moment ago when her dalliance had been near.

"Yes, it was an emergency," Marcelle replied.

"Oh really? And what's that."

"I'm dying, Hylda," she said, completely serious. "I am slowly being bored to death."

Hylda chuckled. "Impatient as always, my dear Marci. I was only gone half an hour, and the evening is still young! There's still plenty of time until dinner!"

"Isn't that just the issue? Whatever will I _do_?", Marcelle lamented, taking off her shoes and rubbing her feet. She really shouldn't have brought her new shoes to this. "These things are killing me, but mercifully quicker than this dreadful evening. Maybe I can convince mother I could retire for the night."

She knew that would not happen, however. Her dear Lady Mother had made it very plain that they were to leave together no matter what. She had also stressed that there was to be a meeting tonight, _"a very important meeting, Marcelle, so you would do well to avoid any conversations with the Bayarts other than customary politeness"._ As such, Lady Marcelle will probably have to see this whole bloody thing through. She needn't mention as much to Hylda, though. 

Evening was settling slowly on the horizon, and the chill was gently pushing everyone back inside. Soon enough, the bells rang, beckoning everyone left to gather. Lady Marcelle and Lady Hylda followed suit, not wanting to be late for something, anything happening, really.

In the case of this event, however, entertainment was not the point. The point was they had never been to an event hosted by the Trevelyans before. As is the custom with weddings, the event was hosted by both parties involved, but every one of the good standing families of the honourable Ostwick court had their eyes on the Trevelyans.

The reason for this intense scrutiny was rather simple: they were new. The Trevelyans were by no means new to nobility, only to any nobility worth talking about. They had famously been trying for generations to improve their standing with the other families, but their ambitions always seemed fickle. All the more prominent noble families of Ostwick were already engaged in a too-tightly knit network of marriage and trade. And then, on the brink of becoming a running joke, the Trevelyan heir, Nadia, landed a marriage to the second son of the Bayarts. _Bold indeed_. And more importantly, most scandalous.

And so, everyone watched intently, trying to score the performance of these newcomers at their first real public display. It was great fun for those with experience at court to try finding tells of their inexperience, things that would make them go _"oh look, poor dears"_ or _"of course, they wouldn't know"_ , to spot things that the more well-established families, such as Marcelle Ehlgar's and Hylda Lotharn's have forgotten in their seemingly eternal priviledge: any measure of humility.

To their dismay, as far as they could see, the upstarts seemed to have anticipated that. They behaved as if they had always been there, like their name was something usual on everyone's lips, and the bride acted as if all the pairs of eyes that were watching her oh so carefully had absolutely no other motive than mere admiration. The gall.

One other unfortunate advantage was that, at its core, the match tonight was an excellent one. Both the Bayarts and the Trevelyans were families with a great measure of self-regard, very enterprising in the shipping affairs of the city, and to their core, and dismay of their guests, very _devout_. That meant that apart from the delightfully insufferable aura of faux royalty emanating from the bride and groom, the atmosphere tonight was best described as tame, laced with childhood nostalgia of going to Chantry sermons. They were surrounded by Andrastian symbols, the decorations all followed the same tired, used, abused, chewed-up and spit out purity theme, and the faint smell of incense lingered in the air like the promise of divine judgement. _Maker's breath_ , even the families wore matching outfits, in a washed-out ivory with and white, and whoever had that idea should be unceremoniously crushed by a loom.

They made their way past the vestibule and once again entered the Grand Ballroom. The walls were swimming in waves of cream satins, with just the subtlest suggestion of a golden hem. They were fastened together into bows with large decorative pins the length of a palm, displaying the Bayart family crest, a distressed-looking eagle with flames underneath. _Aptly done_ , Lady Marcelle thought.

Marcelle and Hylda took their respective places at their table and had some sweeping looks around the room.

"Look at them", Lady Marcelle started, after struggling for a thing to say, "all matching and sitting together like little ducklings."

"There are so many of them too, it will take months to learn all of their names", commented Hylda after a quick headcount. "Do you think we should bother?"

"You don't need to concern yourself with those who aren't main branch. And if half of what I hear is true, most of those don't even know how to properly hold a teaspoon. A bunch of peasants in expensive silks, the lot of them."

"So you've done your homework, then? Who are we looking at?"

Marcelle had, indeed, done her homework. Her mother had entertained her own hopes of marriage within the Bayart line in her own time, and had more recently hoped the same for her daughter. When the wedding invitation was delivered to them bearing the names of Bayart and _Trevelyan_ , Lady Ehlgar set out to uncover which of these backwater nobility infiltrators stole out this potential matrimonial match from under her. After learning all of the names of those about to be introduced to the higher Ostwick court, she made sure Marcelle knew whose dress to accidentally spill wine on at the first opportunity. Of course, Marcelle wouldn't give her mother the satisfaction of seeming to listen to her rant. That doesn't mean she didn't, though. It wasn't everyday they get to see fresh faces at court.

"The only one you should be really paying attention to are Lady Maker's Bride over there, and her brother, the blond and sour looking one in the corner there, surrounded by his pets," Marcelle decided after a beat or two. "Lady Nadia Bayart Trevelyan, who remains her family's heir despite her marriage. You can imagine how that could make the next in line feel... Especially since her brother, Leopold, has been doing all the heavy lifting with their family's trade agreements, and is the one who secured their connection to the navy." She nodded towards a group of young men, sitting at a table close to the marrying couple. The one on the left was stroking his chin with a smirk on his face, watching people going about. He seemed to be well into his numberless glass of wine and Marcelle envied him for it. Standing up, resting one hand on the table was a man dressed in the dark blue and silver of the navy, with a silver sash over his chest and seemingly having discarded his hat somewhere. In the middle, with what seemed like a permanent frown drawn on his face, was Leopold, posture straight, hair and beard light as straw. The frown framed his wide, snow-white eyes, giving his stare an icy intensity. He looked a lot older than he was, Marcelle knew. "That's him in the middle, Lady _Trevelyan_ 's right hand man. The one sitting next to him is Tomas Hondt, a good friend and cousin of Mathis Bayart," she said meaningfully about the smirking man on the left, who looked like the opposite of Leopold in every way. This man's eyes were dark and full of mischief, as he watched everyone dance and made eyes at one of the serving girls. "And that one leaning over Leopold's shoulder is -"

"Victor! We met at the Harvest Ball three years ago! He's grown quite a lot taller since then," Lady Hylda supplied helpfully with a sigh.

Marcelle left out a sigh of her own. Hylda pondered the new information, and seemed disappointed.

"Is that all? All this excitement for a little sibling rivalry? What about the others?"

Oh, this wasn't all. Not by a long stretch. There were eight Trevelyan siblings and Marcelle knew of all of them. She took a deep breath and started counting on her fingers.

"We have Lady Nadia, then next in line - not Leopold - I know, right, but it's - what's his name? Ah I can't remember, but he's a templar now and has been with the templars since he was a boy. Not much is known of him outside of that. _Then_ there's Leopold. Then there's Demuth, a vaguely accomplished researcher in... Old Tevinter relics? Or dwarven. She's here at the College of Ostwick." And she was nowhere to be seen in the ballroom at the moment. Marcelle had met her during her brief study at the College, when she was still an apprentice. Demuth was known for being aloof and for spending all her fortunes amassing old Tevinter - or dwarven?- trinkets and seemed to be thoroughly uninterested in anything, _anything_ else. "Then there's Hette."

"Oh I know Hette!"

"You know _of_ Hette!", Marcelle corrected sternly. It wouldn't do to claim such familiarity with these people.

Both she and Hylda have only heard tales of her from some of their less reputable friends. They could spot Hette Trevelyan surrounded by said friends, turning a small fan between her fingers while one of them fixed a rose from the garden in her elaborate coiffure. From what she'd heard, Hette seemed to hold some sway with the lesser ladies, had caused their friend some trouble, and played a mean hand at Wicked Grace. Marcelle was looking forward to meeting her.

"There are more, aren't there? What about those two over there?", Lady Hylda noticed two young men wearing the same clothing as every other member of the main branch families. Both the Bayarts and Trevelyans were wearing white and ivory head to toe. The men wore a short fitted dolman of delicate silk brocade, its pattern only visible with movement in a certain light. Thin golden frogging adorned the chest from the just under the collarbones down to the hip, edges spun in the shape of clovers. The collar was high and stiff, heavy on the gold embroidery. Wrapped over the chest and around the waist was a white silken sash, fastened at the shoulder and hip with large, gold-encased garnets that glinted like embers in the candle light. The outfits would look downright opulent, if not for the colour palette.

The two young men were chatting casually, helping themselves to some food on the table. One seemed a bit younger than the other, about their age judging by his boyish features, and with the same straw-blond hair as Leopold. He was shaking with laughter and grinning ear to ear, amused by his own story he was telling. The other looked almost identical, but his soft features were more mature, his smile a bit more reserved. His hair was a stark auburn like Nadia's, locks framing his face and threatening to fall into his eyes. His eyes were of the same bright white as the others, but where his brother's stare had been wide and icy like a snake, this one's gaze was warm like sun-kissed snow. _Pretty_ , she noted absent-mindedly, but the longer she searched for something else, the more he seemed a bit... dull.

Something caught Marcelle's eye and she stared for a long moment at the both of them. Both boys were sporting a tan.

_Martyn and Jonathan_ , her memory came to assist.

"They're the younger Trevelyans. From the country."

"Oh yes," exclaimed Hylda, suddenly enlightened, "the twins!"

"No, fool. One is clearly older! The twins are a boy and a girl, though she doesn't seem to be here now."

Marcelle considered them carefully. Not much is known of the youngest three, of course, since they are rarely present at any court parties in Ostwick. Even with one Trevelyan off to the templars and one at the College, there still wasn't enough space at the Trevelyan's holdings in the city to accommodate all of their offspring. Some of them had to live far off in their isolated mansion, at the foot of the Vimmark Mountains. That means the youngest three Trevelyans were also the most at risk of breaching decorum in an unforgivable way in front of the whole court, and everyone was here for it. A thought came to life and blazed like fire in Marcelle's head.

"Hylda, darling," she purred through a wide grin, "maybe there's still a way to salvage some of the evening?"

Hylda knew her friend well enough to quirk an eyebrow at that, and carefully asked, "What do you have in mind, then?"

"I think a game could make this evening rather more fun. Hear this - we're going to dance with as many eligible Trevelyan bachelors as we can. Highest score wins!"

The words rolled off her tongue as she thought them, fully revived with new enthusiasm. So many possibilities were now laid out before her, and Maker be her witness she will soldier through the pain in her feet to win.

"You can't be serious!", shouted Lady Hylda in half-shock half-amusement. "That will take all night!"

_Exactly_.

"Oh come now, you already have one secured with that poet of yours. See? I'm even giving you the head start. Bonus points for securing a dance with a bachelorette. And it has to be a full dance, too, swapping partners during the dance will not count!"

"Fine. Extra points for saving the last one for the cutest also," Hylda offered, hiding a smirk behind her fan.

Marcelle was taken aback. "Which one? We should convene beforehand, least you claim Leopold for the charming prince."

"That older one out of those two," she said, leaning her fan into the direction of the one Marcelle knew to be Jonathan.

"Hylda, seriously, what has happened to your tastes?"

"It's the provincial charm, I suppose."

Marcelle laughed and looked over to the two young men again.

"Well then! Time to test this _'provincial charm'_ , I believe."


	2. Garnets and merrymaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: blood and gore
> 
> The abrupt change in tags is here as promised :)))
> 
> Please enjoy some awkward dancing, and some other things too :)))

“A toast!”, Lord Bayart’s deep voice bellowed across the watchful ballroom. “To our wonderful son and his lovely new wife,” he raised his glass to Mathis beside him, and both him and Nadia nodded. “To Alphonse, my dearest friend, whose family is joining with ours today”, he looked over to the man sitting beside Nadia, long white hair carefully draping his shoulders, face wrinkled and stern, but a look as sharp as youth. “And last but not least, to our honoured guests!”, he finished as he drank the brandy in one go.

“Huzzah!”, the room shouted, drinks in hand, following suit.

Night had fallen in earnest, and so this toast marked the last official item on the agenda. Everyone was free to return to what was left of the party. The cake would be served soon.

At the other end of the ballroom, a certain pair of young men were munching on some peanuts while trying, perhaps a bit too obviously, not to make eye contact with a certain pair of gossiping ladies.

"They've been staring all evening," Martyn mumbled, eyebrows furrowing in concern. "Do you think we did something weird?" He looked over to where their grandfather, Bann Alphonse Trevelyan, sat down beside Lord and Lady Bayart, with a watchful eye towards the party. "I don't think my lord would like it much if we did."

"Just try not to spill anything on the wedding decorations like Ilse did her dress, and we'll likely live to see another day,” Jonathan suggested, some seriousness behind his tone. He hoped the incident with their sister would be forgotten by tomorrow.

"Oh you don't need to tell _me_ that, I'm keeping well away from any goblet and those damned tablecloths. Who thought to make the wedding so pasty anyway? Cream and shiny, like dancing on a cake. You'd think our dear sister fashioned all decorations out of leftover material from her wedding gown. It's a terrible idea and wine stains don't come off easily."

Jonathan looked to his own goblet of wine and inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, "That's exactly why."

Martyn looked confused. "Why would someone want to ruin their tablecloths?”

_Because they can_ , he thought. "This was her mother-in-law's idea. As were our wedding suits. Had quite a heated argument with the matchmaker about it too, which she somehow eventually won."

"Our _uniforms_ , you mean perhaps? Andraste's flat arse, and if that weren't enough, why do we have to match _them_ as well?!"

Martyn’s tone of voice rose dangerously, so Jonathan kicked his boot gently and shot him a warning look. They weren’t home, Martyn shouldn’t talk like this.

“Sorry…”, his brother said, sulking.

Jonathan smiled fondly and shook his head. His gaze then wandered to their lord grandfather, deeply engaged in conversation with the Bayarts. He remembered Madam Bayart's rigid posture and challenging look as she announced her ideas for this whole display. Her arguments circled the expected territory of Chantry symbolism, fire and purity, " _for this match was to be made in the name of the Maker as much as in the name of our families"_. Nadia had been there too, of course, and the complete lack of protest could only have meant that the bride and her mother-in-law had discussed this privately beforehand. It would seem the Bayarts wouldn't even trust the Trevelyans to dress themselves.

Jonathan grabbed another handful of peanuts and sighed. He was starving, having barely touched the food tonight, half too busy, half in fear of a social misstep that would earn death glares from the guests, or his own family, more likely. "I'd lost her train of thought at that point. I am unsure why Nadia wanted me at that meeting in the first place."

"She seems to want you at a lot of meetings lately," Martyn commented inquisitively. "Any special assignment or does she already think it's time to drag you _out there_?"

With a sudden gasp, Jonathan turned around towards the table and started coughing. _Just great_ , not exactly what he’d feared at all.

"What in the Void, are you alright?", Martyn patted his brother on the back, trying to help.

Jonathan calmed and had a sip of wine, his cough lessening. After a moment he shook his head. "I'm fine. Just a..." He coughed again and took a deep breath, not turning around. Martyn looked unconvinced and had a thought to look around the room. He glanced towards where the two ladies before had been standing, and saw one of them shifting around, making her way towards them. Jonathan could almost feel Martyn’s smirk.

" _Oh!_ ", he teased, “I suppose she is quite beautiful. Didn't imagine her as the type to get you this flustered though." He chuckled, "you probably looked quite the fool now if I'm honest".

Jonathan had already been kicking himself for it. "Not flustered. Merely surprised." He grabbed a napkin and wiped his mouth, setting the goblet carefully down on the table. "She's coming this way, isn't she?"

"I'm.. Yes she seems to be heading this way. Run, I can make up an excuse for you!", he kept teasing.

Jonathan took a deep breath and put on a cordial smile. "If only I could..."

"My Lords Trevelyan", Lady Ehlgar said as she approached, making a half-curtsy, mindful of the voluminous folds of her dress disturbing the drinks on the table.

"My lady..." Martyn started cautiously, but his brother came to the rescue. "Lady Ehlgar," Jonathan greeted confidently. "We hope you're enjoying the evening so far."

"Yes indeed, everything is most exquisite!”, she praised politely.

"We’re happy to hear that,” offered Jonathan, but was abruptly cut off.

"Indeed, my brother oversaw the set-up for tonight himself!", Martyn lied, turning towards Lady Ehlgar with a joyful smile, reserved only for when causing his brother grief. "These arrangements are only testament to his good taste!"

Jonathan shot him a look as subtly as he could, which only encouraged Martyn clap him on the back.

"You give me way too much credit, Martyn."

"Oh?”, Lady Ehlgar exclaimed with feigned interest, “Then would my lord honour me with a dance? I have barely seen you dance at all this evening. One must take time to enjoy the fruits of their labour as well!”

"I'd be delighted to, my lady", responded Jonathan as he took her hand, paying no more attention to his gremlin of a brother, who returned to the snacks.

They had no trouble finding space. Hand in hand, they walked in stride to the dance floor, to the rhythm of soaring violins. Jonathan knew the waltz well and waited for the beat, relaxed, but after a moment of careful consideration, his stance grew more rigid, his gaze dropped to his feet.

Finally, the music swept them in with the other dancers. If anyone had been paying attention to them, they would notice this pair's dancing slightly less fluid than the rest, arching movements a bit more jagged, steps slightly strained.

After two turns across the room, Jonathan missed a beat, his foot slightly knocking into Lady Marcelle's shoe. He let out a puff, as if he had been holding his breath.

"Forgive me, my lady. I'm still not used to so many people looking," said Jonathan, giving an earnest apologetic smile.

Lady Marcelle, to her credit, tried to look lenient. "Of course, it's no matter." She pressed more into the dance, very subtly trying to guide Jonathan's steps, and when he complied and relaxed a bit, she gave a satisfied smile. After a few moments, when their dancing improved, Lady Ehlgar regarded him carefully. Jonathan thought maybe he had earned some sympathy.

“May I tell you a secret, my lord?” Lady Ehlgar offered, looking pleased with herself, as if discovering something. Jonathan raised an eyebrow and nodded. "Truthfully,” she said conspiratorially, “no one ever gets used to it. But the point is to always look like you don’t notice - ah!"

This time it was Lady Marcelle who stumbled, and they had to stop for a moment. She quickly regained stance and continued. "It seems we're both a bit clumsy this evening, these shoes are killing me," she commented, laughing.

“Well, dancing is certainly a very creative way of getting rid of the pain, my lady.” She laughed louder at that, as if there was more to the joke that Jonathan was missing.

"It's a good way to pass the time,” she said absent-mindedly, then slipped into her own thoughts, letting the dance take its course.

Jonathan waited for just a bit and tried again, “Lady Ehlgar, forgive me, I'm not always sure about the proper conduct, but I doubt anyone would mind if you were to go rest. You have done more than your share of dancing this evening, it would be well-deserved", Jonathan said sympathetically.

Marcelle let out a long-suffering sigh, seemingly aimed at her own thoughts. "Kind of you to say such things, Lord Jonathan, but I'm afraid my dear mother would mind it very much with how busy she is tonight."

Jonathan, who had seen Madam Ehglar mostly sulk at her table in the corner, decided to press on.

"Oh? Something more important then the wellbeing of her daughter?"

Marcelle's gaze shot up to him for a split second as she took in a small sharp breath. She quickly hid the awkwardness with a bright laugh, and returned to looking over his shoulder.

"Oh aren't you charming, Lord Trevelyan! If I didn't know any better I'd say you were also about to offer to escort me to my chambers. I'm flattered, but I can't be so easily expelled off the dance floor."

Jonathan stuttered, and so did his steps, "I-I wasn't - "

"Subtlety, my lord. It is appreciated here," Marcelle whispered to him, amused as if by a parlour trick.

As the dance finally ended, they stepped away from each other and bowed deeply.

"My apologies for overstepping, my lady.”

"Hardly, Lord Trevelyan. Welcome to court."

*** 

Across the room, the bride waited.

"You stumbled in your steps earlier," admonished Nadia, lifting her gaze from where she had been adjusting the flower arrangements. “Multiple times.”

"I did," replied Jonathan cheerfully and walked steadily towards her. "She found my clumsiness quite endearing. At least overtly,” he tried to sound reassuring.

His sister tried hiding her skepticism, in case people were looking. As the bride, she had everyone's eyes on her all night. Nadia’s dress was voluminous but simple in design, much like their other wedding attire. It was long-sleeved and encompassing, made largely of the same ivory brocade of Jonathan’s jacket, arranged in waves and wide at the waist. The dress lacked a lot of the frills and bows of the other ladies, but it stood out with a shock of red silk straight through the middle of the corset and skirt, sharp against the ivory, and bringing out the golden chain studded with rubies she wore as a belt. Her normally wild auburn curls were arranged neatly around her ears and down her back.

Jonathan poured himself and his sister some wine with great care. He raised his glass towards Nadia, who mimicked the gesture and pretended to have a sip. Jonathan didn’t bother pretending.

"You can add the Ehlgars to that list of yours. Apparently Lady Marcelle has been dancing a great deal with the Ostwick gentry tonight to pass the time. She cannot leave, for her mother is having a meeting later. Seemed important."

Nadia puffed, unsurprised. “I appreciate your valiant efforts, Jonathan, but I could already tell by the daggers her mother has been glaring at me for the whole evening. Not even subtle about it,” she muttered bitterly in her wine glass.

Jonathan felt cheated. “Well, now you have confirmation too.” Nadia noticed prying looks, so she tried to look amused. Amused looked strange on her, Jonathan noted. But she must at least try to look like she's having fun and he's sure she hates it. He felt just a little bit vindicated.

"Did she by any chance let it slip who her mother is meeting?"

"No. She changed the subject immediately. That in itself should help narrow it down for you." Jonathan paused to consider his next line carefully, catching his sister's gaze. “Do you have anyone in mind?”, he asked, shooting a quick look to where her now in-laws were sitting.

“No idea,” Nadia said and nodded slightly. They should cut the conversation short.

Nadia eyed her new husband, hard to miss in his shimmering gold-lined jacket, engaged in conversation with a navy liaison.

"Before I depart, what about the other thing?", Nadia said, putting her glass down.

Jonathan stiffened, slightly irritated, "I already told you, I'm not here to fish for the latest court affairs. How in Andraste's name do you imagine I could make that seem like harmless chit-chat? Martyn already did a great job in making her think I'm interested!"

Nadia's happy act soured as quick as lighting. "Wait, did you tell _Martyn_?", she shout-whispered.

"Of course not! He just enjoys being a pain," Jonathan quickly finished the rest of the glass and poured himself some more with a heavy sigh.

Nadia relaxed and then chuckled, “Stop being so animated, people are looking". She quickly swiped his glass of wine for water, and he accepted with a polite smile-grimace.

"Besides, I'm sure Hette has you well supplied on the gossip front. Why didn't you send her, anyway? She'd fit right in with Lady Marcelle." Jonathan had wanted to ask her that as soon as Nadia asked him to do this. Why send him when there’s someone much more in their element available? He looked towards where Hette should be sitting, and spotted her teaching someone – Lady Lotharn – the moves to some dance.

"Some friend of Hette’s and some friend of Marcelle’s don’t get along. A comment made about one of the lady's fake beauty marks and some spilled tea on a wig. I’m told it was important she never speaks to her,” explained Nadia, unconvinced.

"You should pay more attention to who spills tea on whose wig you know," Jonathan reminded her with a hint of concern.

"And why would I do that when I have the two of you? I have plenty other to worry about. Hette is expensive though. She demands I introduce her to the dashing navy officer currently chatting with my husband. I said I'll _'do whatever I can, dear'_ and will probably end up getting her an invitation to the next Bayart dinner instead."

"I, on the other hand, am very cheap. I merely ask that you leave me alone once in a while, and you barely even do that."

"This is why I never send you negotiating, dear Jonathan," she replied with some humour. A fair point.

"Merciful Andraste, I'll do my best to not accidentally look competent in front of you.” After a sip of water, his expression relaxed. He was tired, he was starving, increasingly tipsy and with his nerves pushed to the edge. It couldn’t have been too easy for Nadia either. “Are you enjoying your wedding at least?", he asked, softer.

In response, she laughed again, her heart more in it this time. Then, she turned to join the heated discussion currently unfolding next to the head table, "Fix your sash, Jonathan, it's been bothering me."

As soon as she left, Jonathan fixed his sash and retrieved his previous glass of wine.

***

The guests were gently disappearing in small groups, making their way to the carriages waiting outside to finally conclude their evening. A select few instructed their drivers to drop them off just down the street to the Bayart estate, where the party was set to continue, if not for the mythical three days and three nights, maybe at least until lunchtime tomorrow. There, the inner circle of friends could drop some of the propriety in safe proximity of their beds, while the main actors of the evening will get some real business done. That meant more listening, more negotiating, cashing in on tonight's charming performance.

Jonathan wanted absolutely nothing to do with it.

He watched the servants starting to gather the plates off the table, feeling slightly guilty for wanting to call it a night while everyone else had things to do.

"I'm going to sleep for a week," Martyn announced with a yawn while stretching. "I'm _never_ holding one of these myself, mark my words, mother!"

Madam Trevelyan reached to grab her son’s ear and pull, but with no real force behind it, ignoring Martyn’s exaggerated whining. They were among the last in the ballroom, and the servants were already at work cleaning up.

"Oh the poor servants," she said with genuine concern, "they had to work for days to set this up and now they have to take it all down before tomorrow's festivities. There's so few of them too, most of ours are at the Bayarts, tending to the soirée."

"I'll stay and help, then!", offered Jonathan immediately, sensing an opportunity.

Madam Trevelyan smiled slightly and nodded. "I'll tell everyone you both went home then, if they ask. I’ll have a carriage wait for you outside for whenever you’re finished, Jonathan.”

Once they left, Jonathan wandered the halls to find an antechamber where he could change. He put away his coat, carefully removed the shoulder sash and folded it, then discarded the stiff jacket he had been wearing all evening. Working in his undershirt and trousers was much more doable. When he emerged back into the ballroom, to the dismay of his empty stomach, most of the food had already been cleared off the tables.

Right. He wasn’t here to eat, he was here to help. He looked around the room for something to do. There were indeed only about ten servants left, neither Bayarts nor Trevelyans. For the enormity of today’s event, some day laborers had to be hired to cope with the amount of tasks. All of them were elves from Ostwick’s alienage. Some were gathering the cutlery, pouring unfinished drinks in buckets, others were taking the covers off the chairs. One servant seemed to be struggling to remove the pins that fastened the wall tapestries. He was reaching on his toes, struggling for balance, chair clattering dangerously. Jonathan approached as carefully as he could.

"I can help with that," he said softly, trying not to scare the elf. Despite that, he flinched and clung to the back of the chair for support.

"Lord Trevelyan!", he shouted as he gripped the chair.

It wasn't clear whether Jonathan had spooked him with his voice or with his presence. He was surprised that the elf knew him, but then they probably had had all evening to learn to recognise each of them.

"There's no need to trouble yourself, my lord, we have everything covered! You can go and enjoy the party with everyone else!” The servant looked downright panicked to have him there, and Jonathan, not for the first time tonight, felt a pang of homesickness. He let himself be a little annoyed too. But he wasn’t going to leave.

"You're understaffed. I promise they won't miss me at the party.” He tried his most reassuring look, watching the servant’s brows furrow further in confusion. That hadn't worked, then.

Jonathan opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Honesty seemed like the way to go.

"There's nothing at the party except more of this," he gestured vaguely. " _Please_ don't send me there." He looked imploringly at the servant, waiting for the ruling.

The elf watched him for a long moment before laughing and stepping off the chair. "Very well, my lord. You may stay."

Jonathan beamed at him and climbed up in his place. He reached for the pin, and after a few seconds of fiddling, the satins slipped free of it.

"What is your name?", he asked as the servant stared at him in shock.

"Samahl, my lord.”

Jonathan wanted to ask him to drop the formalities for the evening, but knew it was unlikely. Instead, he made short work of the finnicky pins and gently lowered the silks to the servant to fold. They spent the next couple of hours relieving the walls of their draperies, chatting companionably. If Jonathan's laughter was sometimes a bit louder or his glance lingered slightly longer than was necessary, or if Samahl's hands accidentally touched his a few times, neither of them commented on it. Neither of them seemed to mind, either.

***

As his back hit the wall with a _thump_ , his shoulder nudged the window and pushed it ajar. It was still far from dawn, and the breeze outside carried the distant sound of the sea into the room. A strong gush of air. Papers scattered to the floor. Hair raised on Jonathan’s back. The chill? The thrill? Unease. Hurried steps outside under the window. He turned his head to look outside, but he couldn’t see a thing.

"Only some of the others going home," said Samahl, kissing up his jaw. He took off the garnet pin fastening Jonathan's silk sash around his middle, and Jonathan let his head fall back with a gasp as Samahl's hands finally slipped under his shirt. He was conflicted. The winds weren’t strong tonight. Why was there a draft? He forced his eyes open, torn between paying more attention to their surroundings and giving into the warm feeling of Samahl’s lips against his neck. As if on cue, Samahl kissed him again, more insistent this time, clearly trying to pull him back from whatever had distracted him. Jonathan responded with a soft moan and kissed back, hands buried in the elf’s long hair. He tried to shake off the chill, but the more he tried to pay attention to what they were doing, the louder that nagging feeling became. He broke the kiss and moved his lips behind Samahl’s ear, glancing behind him to the empty room. Still silence, fire flickering, a thin line of dust carried by the draft around the corner of the doorframe. Quickly, in the corner of his eye - movement? A flash of something. Cloth? Maybe nothing. Blink, double take, same spot, nothing, where there was still something, lingering on his vision.

"Someone's here", he said at the end of a breath, stopping both of them. Samahl looked confused, hurt, studying Jonathan's worried expression. He turned back to glance at the empty doorframe.

"If any of the others forgot something, they won't come here to look, my lord. No one will find out, if that concerns you."

Then silence. But it wasn't not empty, it was wrong, strained, silence of a held breath. Samahl stilled, sensing it too. Hair rising on the arm. Unease. He gave Jonathan a look and stepped back, intending to go search. They both walked cautiously back towards the ballroom.

The hall was dark. The lights had been put out by the last servants to leave. Ambient light of a distant sunrise faintly contoured the lines of the furniture. The smell was fresh, cold, the draft was strong. Sound of their footsteps on soft carpets, and wind. They looked towards the entrance at the same time. The door had been left open, the wind wheezing from outside. A large key had been dropped on the floor lying in something...closer...leaves, smell of blood. There was blood all over the floor.

The second they realised, a distant, blood-curling scream creeped its way towards them through the silence. _Where?_

Samahl looked for the first thing that could serve as a blunt weapon. Jonathan wished he’d had the presence of mind to at least bring a pocket knife, _fuck_ , _damnit_ , but there was no time to retrieve it from his clothes. They ran across the ballroom, led by the blood stains into a hallway. Jonathan could hear crashes and thuds on a stone floor, curses and yelling, someone hurt. Close enough to make out the words, help, _help_.

They barged into the room where the screams were coming from.

Samahl entered first, dropping the metal bar he had been holding. Jonathan sees him rush to the side of an elven woman – one of the servants who had just left.

“Mariol!”, Samahl screamed, dropping to his knees and holding one of her hands. Mariol was crying hysterically and breathing heavily, clutching at her middle – her clothes were drenched in blood. Before her on the floor – a dead body, clad in black, wearing an elven cowl and soaking in a large pool of blood. There was a metal poker piercing through his neck. Jonathan was frozen still in horror and stared at the dead body, breathing long forgotten. Before him stood someone dead and someone dying. They’d walked right past him.

The tangy, metallic smell filled the air, thick and choking. The woman’s screams cut through it like razors. He approached the black figure, trying to get a look at the face. The dead man’s eyes were wide, encased in shock. Stubble on his chin. _Something’s wrong_. He moved closer, feeling blood soaking into the silks of his trousers as he knelt down to have a better look. He pulled back the cowl around the ears.

_Human._

Samahl tried to stay calm and mutter reassurances to the woman. “Get help!”, he shouted to Jonathan, and then he was on his feet and out the door.

The carriage driver was supposed to be there still.

He ran out of the building as fast as he could, across the garden, to the street. The carriage driver was sleeping. Jonathan shook the man awake, “Call the city guard! There’s been an attack!”

When he got back, Mariol was still crying in Samahl’s arms, but there was someone else in the room. _Tomas Hondt. Leopold's friend._

“Trevelyan! What the fuck are you doing here?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this chapter. 
> 
> Apologies in advance for the length of each chapter. I have no self control and very lenient betas (*wink* @babeof).


	3. One of us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter yet :)
> 
> Featuring damage control in its many forms
> 
> CW: symptoms of post-traumatic stress, racism towards elves

One dead and two missing. Mariol had died from her wounds during the night.

Jonathan was sat outside the theatre on a bench, staring at nothing, breathing softly as if asleep. His head was a whirlpool of static both loud and muted, dizzying against the quiet of the morning emerging around him. Gentle sun rays worked to melt the cold that had set into his bones. He knew somewhere in the back of his mind that he'll be needed soon.

Samahl was inside, giving his testimony. They hadn't let them speak since the city guard arrived. Jonathan was waiting, still in his blood-soaked wedding clothes. He heard shapeless and unfamiliar murmurs buzzing somewhere nearby and knew his family must be among them as well.

He hadn't noticed Leopold approach.

"They want to speak to you."

His brother's voice seemed loud and far away, like he was shouting at him over a ravine. Before he could even think to stand up, Leopold sat beside him.

"It's a good thing I sent Hondt to look for you," he reprimanded. "Hanging out with thieves and savages. Getting in harm's way. _That's_ what you get. Remember that."

Jonathan had heard him, but the words couldn't find their way through. The poison in Leopold's voice wasn't lost on him however, and he felt the need to rub something off his right shoulder. He couldn't seem to think past the blood on his clothes, the image of the lifeless man lying on the floor, the screaming. When the silence had stretched enough that it was clear his brother had nothing else to say, Jonathan finally stood up and walked to the interrogation room.

***

They hadn't been transported to the Ostwick City Guard headquarters, but used a room in the theatre instead. No one save for the guards themselves had been permitted inside, and even then there were only a handful and their commander present. Jonathan followed one of the guards down a long corridor and entered one of the offices.

He didn't pay much attention to his surroundings. He registered a man standing behind a desk, and a chair pulled to the side in front of him. He greeted and sat down, not knowing if he had been invited to do so. 

Jonathan tried his best to seem present as the man prompted him with questions. The questions were asked mechanically, almost cordially, as if he was one of hundreds of suspects interrogated that night. It crossed his mind for the first time that he had to be a suspect, didn't he?

He did his best to recount what had happened, how they saw blood in the ballroom, how they heard screaming, a scuffle, how they found the man dead. He answered each question dutifully, save for what exactly him and Samahl had been doing prior to that. That wouldn't serve anyone.

The guard kept on pacing in front of him. "Are you absolutely certain the elf was dead when you entered the chamber?", he asked.

Red blotches were swimming in his vision. Jonathan swayed a little in his chair, feeling sick. He wanted to leave. "He had a poker through his neck when we entered. He was dead." Then he replayed the question in his head, confusion twisting his features. "And the man was no elf, sir. He was human." _How could they not know? They had taken the body away._

If the guard was surprised at the news, he made no show of it. Instead, he interrupted his pacing to lean his hands on the desk in front of him. He spoke slowly this time, his voice tinted with pity.

"Fear plays tricks on the mind, my lord. We retrieved the body and took it to the mortician, and it was most definitely elven."

_No, he wasn't_ , Jonathan's mind stubbornly insisted. _He wasn't_. He can't have seen wrong, he had _checked_.

He had...

"Now," the guard pressed forward, as if to underline his words. "Let's try this again, my lord. Was the _elf_ dead when you entered the room?"

Jonathan's eyes finally shot up from the floor, focused on the guard. He would have time to think this through later. Now, he was angry.

"No," he gritted through his teeth.

"He wasn't?"

"No. The elf was alive, clutching at her wounds. The man on the floor was dead."

***

Time passed in a daze. Someone familiar was leading him to the carriage. To their home in the city. To his temporary chambers. To a bath. To a plate of food.

He wasn't hungry, he observed, so he decided to bathe instead. He discarded his stained wedding clothes and threw them into a corner. As he climbed into the steaming bath, he closed his eyes. Thoughts were difficult to manage. He felt numb, like spiderwebs clung to his mind, his eyes foggy when he tried to focus, the awareness he had displayed during the interrogation nowhere to be found. A few dunks underwater forced him to take deep breaths, and he felt slightly more awake.

He began washing as he tried remember all the people that had talked to him today. Tomas, before the city guard arrived. Several people wearing armour, telling him to stay put and wait. Samahl, looking at him from across a hallway, but being lead away. Someone passing him a blanket. Then no one for a long time. He thought he remembered Leopold saying something. The interrogation. Helmut, their servant, his friend, leading him around.

_The day isn't over_ , he realised, as he splashed more water over his head. He let his arms drop with exhaustion, and soaked in the water until it went cold. A shiver brought his attention back to the present, and he somehow found the strength to haul himself out and put on the set fresh of clothes Helmut had laid out for him. He noticed the food again.

He sagged down into a chair. He wasn't hungry, but took a tentative bite anyway. Almost immediately he was dizzy with hunger. How hadn't he noticed before? He forced himself not to devour the whole thing instantly, made sure to drink water to wash it down, to stop to chew.

He set his cutlery down and felt an immobilising wave of exhaustion. All of the missed hours of sleep were finally asking their toll, so he crawled to the bed and was out like a light.

***

When he awoke, it was already dark outside. Someone had left a bowl of fruit on his nightstand, along with a note.

Nadia wanted to see him. As did Bann Trevelyan.

He knew he would need to speak to them sooner rather than later. Frankly, he was surprised he had been allowed this long. By now, everyone would have heard what happened.

And yet.

A strange silence hovered around him. Their city home wasn't as lofty as the houses of the other noble families, and the stone walls tended to carry over the clamour of family and servants shuffling about. But there was no noise from outside his door, nor from the corridor, nor from the study next to him, and especially odd, no sign of Ilse or Martyn anywhere in the vicinity. It wasn't like them to be this quiet, or not stop by. All signs suggested the house was empty.

It was very unlike his grandfather to evacuate everyone to allow him some rest. _More likely so he could speak to me himself first._

It felt too early for his head to be swimming in questions again, and he needed his strength, so he tried his best to shake them off and focus on dressing. It seemed Helmut had already picked some clothes for him. A simple pair of breeches, a white linen shirt with ruffled sleeves, with thin yellow and gold lines of embroidery adorning the shoulders. He was also given a dark green velvet vest with gold lining, embroidered with beads and flower motifs all over. It was more formal than he would usually choose for himself, but since he would see Bann Trevelyan later he supposed it couldn't be helped.

He walked to Nadia's quarters, hearing her voice clearly through the door when he knocked.

"You're awake," she started, lifting her tired gaze from a letter, and Jonathan was taken aback by how different his sister looked now compared to just a day ago. Jonathan looked pristine compared to Nadia, even as tired and reeling as he still was. She seemed to have barely slept at all. Her hair was back to its wild dishevelled curls, the dark circles under her eyes made more strident in the candlelight. She was no longer wearing her wedding dress, but a long and comfortable looking lambswool one, without any constricting shaping elements. She set down the letter and looked him over a few times.

Nadia and Jonathan weren't close, exactly. All Trevelyan children had spent their childhood with their mother at their manor in the Darnaut Pass, nestled in a valley at the foot of the Vimmarks. The valley was sparse with people save for a few mining villages. Once they grew old enough, most of them went to the city to complete their education and, as the heir, Nadia had been first on that list. She had lived in Ostwick for as long as Jonathan could remember, always busy with their family's affairs. It had only been a few years since they'd kept correspondence, as their family's reputation started to improve and they started receiving noble guests in Darnaut. When Nadia discovered Jonathan could be useful, that became his responsibility. She had been honest about wanting to use Jonathan's calm temper and patience to coax information out of their guests, and she was understanding when Jonathan expressed his disinterest in their family affairs. Since then, he knew his sister had grown to trust him to a degree, and so, even if they weren't close, there was a certain freedom in the way they spoke to each other.

"How are you feeling?"

How was he feeling? Dreadful. Hollow. Uncertain. But his sister looked concerned, so with whatever conviction he could muster he managed to say -

"Better. You look like you've been busy."

She scoffed, rubbing her face with both hands. Jonathan took a seat.

"Blasted fire, Jonathan! Why were you there?"

She sounded outraged, and he was sure what he was about to say would not make things any better.

"I was helping them clean up," said Jonathan without a hint of guilt. He'd save that for Bann Trevelyan.

"You're lying to me," Nadia tested.

"I am not," he said, somewhat weathered. _Of course that would be the main issue,_ he realised, now that he had a moment to think. For the first time today he wondered how Samahl had fared during the investigation.

Nadia spoke to him as if to a particularly daft child.

"Not only does your idiocy almost get you killed, you don't even have the decency to look ashamed of yourself for putting us - putting _me_ \- through a scandal on my wedding night! And after we'd done so well..."

He spared a moment to think about what must have gone on in the background while he was waiting, and felt sorry for what Nadia must have been through. "Do they think me a suspect?", Jonathan asked, trying to gauge the situation.

Nadia looked even more exasperated, if possible. "No one thinks you guilty of murder, Jonathan. Our biggest problem right now is trying to explain what in the Void you were doing in the middle of an elven clan skirmish, in the company of an elf with ties to their alienage thugs! ' _Oh, he was helping them, sir'_ \- we should pass _that_ on shouldn't we!"

"What?"

The sound of his voice was faint even to his own ears. Nadia didn't press on, letting him gather his thoughts.

Doubt creeped its way into his demeanour for the first time since last night. The dead man seemed to have the stature of an elf and had been wearing elven clothes. But Jonathan knew, he _saw_ it, clear as day... He tried to remember the man's face, but the more he tried to think of it, the face turned smoother, the ears turned pointier...

Jonathan felt his chest tighten with panic. The words of the interrogator were turning into a whirlpool in his mind.

"Nadia..."

He needed someone to believe him before he went insane. He trusted Nadia, and prayed his sister trusted him enough in turn. _But if she would, what then?_

He took a chance. "The man who died was _not_ an elf. He was human. Right before I went to get help, I checked. I leaned in to see his face, knelt down in the blood to get a good look. I noticed stubble. I pulled back his headwear. I saw _human_ ears. This was no _'elven skirmish'_."

At that, it was Nadia's turn to be stunned.

"Jonathan are you sure you saw-"

" _Yes_ , damnit! I'm sure!" He needed to keep certain, and shouting it seemed to help.

Nadia looked troubled. When she saw no flinching from him, no further explanation, no move to take it back, she frowned and rose from the desk, pacing towards the window. Silence fell as they were both likely asking themselves the same questions. _Who had been the attacker? Why would the City Guard cover this up? Where were the other two missing elves?_

"Don't tell him that, Jonathan. Under no circumstances. He already talked to the guards, and he will not believe you."

Jonathan wanted to protest, but he saw the truth of it as well. Lord Trevelyan would have no reason to complicate matters further by believing him.

As if sensing his protest, Nadia walked up to him and squeezed his arm.

"Let me have someone look into it. If I find anything, I will tell you. I promise."

Jonathan nodded, feeling somewhat reassured, and offered no more protest. Even if they had to keep this to themselves for now, he felt enormous relief. Perhaps even enough to power him through his next meeting.

"What am I in for?", he asked.

Nadia sighed and closed her eyes. "The scandal got quite heated at the Bayarts this morning. They brought up father," she said regretfully, and Jonathan cringed.

They didn't often think about their father. It was more than ten years since he had been imprisoned in Tantervale, convicted of fraud and falsifying documents to obtain property that the Chantry had claim to. And in Tantervale, the Chantry may as well be the law. The scandal had hurt their family greatly, and Bann Trevelyan went to great lengths to distance them all from their father. They had never been allowed to visit him in prison, or even speak of him in public. Jonathan hadn't been privy to the wedding negotiations between their family and the Bayarts, but he knew this must have been a very difficult subject.

So he knew to expect the worst from his next audience.

Nadia sat back down at her desk and gave Jonathan a sympathetic look. "There's one other thing I wanted to talk to you about. I'd hoped it could wait until spirits were calmer, but I'm afraid our position right now demands that we act quickly."

"You have a task for me?" Jonathan said, any hopes of going back home to Darnaut crushed by the second.

"Yes. We have secured a contract with one of the finest jewellers in Nevarra. Leopold has already settled the terms with them, but they insist they meet with one of us to finalize the deal. I must be here for a while, and since we absolutely _must_ see this deal through, and you know how Leopold can be... I want to send you."

It was too much for Jonathan to process all at once, on top of the mess already in his head, so the only question that found its way out of his mouth was, "Nevarra?"

Nadia seemed quite pleased with her own idea. "A bit farther than you're used to, but I think you could do with a little travelling. Don't you?"

***

Bann Trevelyan had learned long ago that fate is not something one leaves unsupervised.

Ostwickers were not as mindful of omens as they should be, he had always thought. Not for lack of legends, not for lack of custom and beliefs. But freedom, as the name implied, was a sentiment shared widely throughout the Free Marches, and that often extended to freedom from the inhibitions of destiny, of _place_. They stumbled through life blindly, with no regard for the damage wrought in their way, jeering and mocking those few who were still able to read the past into the future. Others may scorn at _‘superstition’_ , at soothsayers and augurs, at Dalish curses.

But Bann Trevelyan knew better.

The past held threads of ancient magics whose pattern and coherence had long been lost. So much knowledge, wiped by the passage of time, by the destruction wrought during the Blights, by the foolishness of those who choose not to uphold tradition in the way tradition is due. So much power locked away, right under the noses of fools who choose to not beware of the warnings it casts.

Being wary of the arcane had always served him very well. When it was not heeded, it always came back to punish him.

Every Ostwicker knows to bring an even amount of flowers to a funeral. This custom had so far been kept conscientiously, though the accompanying tale had long been lost. Even numbers spelt doom in their completion.

Some over twenty years ago, his daughter and her husband - another arrogant fool who had forgotten his place - had their sixth child.

The child currently waiting outside Lord Trevelyan's door.

He had noticed it before the augur had. Three boys, three girls. An even match.

They were warned, then, of misfortune, of ruin, of the tearing of the skies. And sure enough, disaster didn't wait to hit. He had lost his wife to disease soon after.

It had been an ill omen, clear as day, and he had been a fool to ignore it. He urged his daughter to have another child, to listen to reason, to save them all.

His daughter had twins. A boy and a girl.

He was not surprised in the least that a moment like this would come at last.

Lord Trevelyan had already spoken to everyone today. The city guard, Nadia and Leopold, _twice_ , Lord Bayart, the Teyrn's assistant, the chantry clerics, the soothsayer, the matchmaker, everyone under the bloody moons! But he had never, not once in his life, had a word alone with this foolish grandson of his.

The children couldn't help it, he supposed. One cannot outrun their fate for too long, and being raised under the lenient eye of his daughter, up in the mountains like lawless savages, had done nothing to help matters. And yet, guilty or not, he could not help the disdain he felt over the fate they promised to bring. Curse his luck, his daughter's luck, and this child's luck for bringing them misfortune twice over! For doubling his efforts to drag their family out from the dirt. An entire army of Trevelyans, and only Nadia and Leopold understood. 

He trusted Nadia's judgement as he would his own. She said the boy had been useful of late. It was time to see if he could also be _obedient._

Lord Trevelyan heard a knock on the door and gave permission to enter.

"My lord," Jonathan entered and greeted with a slight bow. At least the boy remembered his courtesies.

Lord Trevelyan pinned him with a glare, studying him. The silence was stretching, and Jonathan rubbed his hands nervously.

Good.

He didn't invite him to sit.

"Recount to me, as succinctly as possible, the events of last night."

Jonathan braced himself and started to speak.

"After the guests departed yesterday,” he started bravely, "I stayed behind to help the servants cle-"

"And here we are," Lord Trevelyan interrupted matter-of-factly, "to the root of the problem already."

Despite having kept his distance from them, he knew his youngest grandchildren well. He was well aware of their penchant of relinquishing formality, of throwing propriety out the window. He did his best to piece the world back together whenever he visited, but they always, _always_ found a way to splinter it back all over the place. As they had been born to do.

He visited them once, long ago, when the three were only children. Their upbringing had been in such decay that even the servants had forgotten to call the young masters by their _proper_ titles. Lord Trevelyan had ensured their punishment was enough that he was certain the slight would not happen again.

Such was his plight, to eternally mend the mess allowed by his permissive daughter.

"Have you forgotten what happened the last time you failed to remember your place?"

"No, my lord," responded a strained voice.

Jonathan looked fearful. Good. This was no time for coddling. This was a time for harshness.

If only Jonathan remembered his place, they would all be fine.

He needed a reminder.

"Do you have any knowledge of what your careless transgression has cost this family today?", he heard himself growl bitterly. Of course this child did not know of the amount of palms that had needed greasing to sort out this mess, of the number of promises needed to be made to the Bayarts, who had the upper hand.

"Of what sacrifices I personally had to make for a whimpering ungrateful brat whose only ambition in life is to become a _servant_?"

"I'm sorry, my lord. Please forgive me!", Jonathan said shakily, head bowed, breath tight.

"Apologies are not enough!", Lord Trevelyan bellowed, patience at his limit. Could this child not see it? "Will it happen again?!"

"No, my lord! It won't happen again!"

"It better not," he spat, and dismissed his trembling grandson with a gesture.

If only Jonathan stayed put, if only he did as he was told, they would all be alright.

***

Most of the other Trevelyans had spent the day at the Bayarts.

Jonathan watched the convoy of servants and guards accompanying his family from his window, enjoying the hum of casual chatter that rose up from the group. He spotted his mother speaking with Demuth, Leopold next to them. Right behind were Ilse and Martyn, unusually quiet and sombre, heads low. Ilse looked up and caught his gaze, and immediately pushed her way past the others, dragging Martyn with her.

He wouldn't need to wait for long. He heard hurried footsteps in the corridor, so he rose from his seat. The next thing he knew, his door was flung open, with Ilse barging in, still wearing her cloak and her shoe pattens. She ran to him and pulled him in a tight hug. Martyn followed soon after, closing the door and hugging them both.

"We heard what happened," Ilse said, muffling a sob in his vest.

Despite being crushed by both of them, Jonathan found his breath again. The static in his mind was quieting by the second as he was gently being grounded to the present. A shudder overcame him as he felt the latching thorns of fear in his gut slowly wither away, as his worries fell and crashed around him like melting spikes of ice. The fog in his head he had carried all day finally lifted, air clearing his lungs. He opened his mouth to say something, but the sounds died in his throat, his eyes welling up no matter how much he fought it. He had spoken enough for one day.

Instead, he wrapped an arm around each of the twins and focused on his shaky breaths. Ilse and Martyn didn’t move, didn’t speak, just sat with him through it, locked in the embrace.

***

Even if he had slept all day, he felt the weight of exhaustion tugging at his eyelids again. He would need to find something to keep himself busy, until he got more news from Nadia. Ilse had promised they would all go out to the Central Market tomorrow for some fresh air.

As he was contemplating his situation, there was a soft knock at the door. Reyna entered cautiously, without waiting, making sure to close the door behind her.

"My lord, a moment?", she said quietly.

Reyna and Helmut were the two servants they had been allowed to bring along from Darnaut. Both of their parents served or had served at their estate in the past. Helmut’s family had always lived in Darneut, so he grew up alongside Jonathan and the twins. Reyna was older, about their mother's age, and had lived in the Ostwick alienage before she joined their household.

"What's the matter? Come, sit down."

Reyna bit her lip and took the seat opposite Jonathan. She reached into her sleeve to pull out a closed leather pouch, about the size of her hand.

"We were passing by the Theatre Market while returning from the Bayarts, when I was stopped by a merchant there. She told me to give this to you when you were alone. I don't know what it is."

Jonathan took the pouch, weighed it in his hand. The timing could only mean…

"Who gave this to you?", he asked.

"A friend, my lord. From the alienage. She did not tell me who it was from, only that it should reach you, and that no one else is to know. Do you know who it is, my lord? Should I tell someone?”

“No, that’s alright. Thank you for bringing me this.” He thought of Martyn and Ilse, of the mess he was in, then of his talk with Nadia, and added, “please tell no one of this. You may go.”

Reyna wished him a good night and left. Jonathan opened the pouch as soon as she was out the door, letting the small object within fall into his palm. One of the garnets that had fastened his sash at the wedding glimmered gold and amber in the dim light.

There was also a note. Two circles, one inside the other, a long line underneath, interspersed by smaller ones. Outside the circles to the left, a small cross.

The city walls. The port. The elven alienage. 

In shaky handwriting, on the back of the paper, _'15, Hvm'_. Tomorrow's date. A setting sun.

It had been agony, to know what happened and not be able to tell a soul. Nadia had told him to stay put, but Samahl had risked a lot to send him this. It would seem Jonathan had plans for tomorrow.


	4. Song of Autumn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This one was harder to write than it had any right to be. 
> 
> No CW here, no sir, we're going for a nice stroll around Ostwick for some much needed fresh air. 
> 
> The crowd bit was by far the weirdest thing to write out. Remember that?
> 
> Enjoy!

There were several things Jonathan had expected from their first outing since the mess at the wedding.

For one, he had expected the weather to be colder. It had rained heavily during the night, so the streets were covered in deep puddles, cobblestone slippery under the heel, but it seemed the summer heat insisted to cling on for just a few more hours. The pleasant smell of damp stone that usually came with heavy rain woke him up more efficiently than anything else he had tried today. Feeling the sunlight on his skin provided relief he hadn't expected, and he didn't even mind the evening sun blinding him every now and again.

Another thing would be the whispering. The events of the 'Bayart' wedding were no secret to anyone by now, and he noticed what wanted to pass for subtle whispering and unobtrusive glances in their direction as they walked down the main streets. It must their retinue of guards accompanying them that Nadia had insisted upon that was tipping them off. No one in the city knows them only by appearance, but they were not able to pass unrecognised like this. That made it difficult for Jonathan to hear what the people thought of the attack. If anything though, there was less attention focused on them than he expected, no questions asked, no subtle remarks when they spoke to the merchants. Perhaps the guards were intimidating enough.

Last but not least, he had expected to have a better plan for how to get away by now. Nearly a full day had passed and Jonathan hadn't yet thought of a plausible way to get to the alienage. In all fairness, his initial plan didn't include getting away from three irritatingly vigilant Trevelyan guards. He kept looking around at the market stalls, thinking maybe he could steal a moment away and vanish, but he couldn't think of a way where the guards wouldn't pursue. And so, with half a plan, he kept a wary eye on the skyline and prayed for some luck. Perhaps his siblings could assist.

He caught Martyn watching him.

"Alright?", Martyn asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, I'm fine," he chose to respond. _'Of course'_ seemed like a bit of a stretch.

Martyn didn't seem convinced, but then again, Jonathan being distracted was probably something he expected given what had happened. Would this be a good time to ask? Even as he imagined it, some unknown force made him hesitate.

Just then, Martyn turned away and spotted Ilse somewhere in the near distance, cooing over a beautiful mahogany jewellery box with a mechanical dancing ballerina, not noticing her shoes dangerously close to being submerged in the murky water of a puddle.

"Oh for...," Martyn sighed and went over, gently pushing a mesmerised Ilse one step to the side, out of the water.

Jonathan would normally have the presence of mind to make a quip at that, perhaps be glad they were not seeing Lord Trevelyan today, or mention Ilse needing taller shoes, but he was too distracted. He felt more than saw the guards approach, and the apprehensiveness returned in full force. _It's too bloody cramped to think._

He tried to turn his attention to the rest of the things sold at the market stall. Normally, he could spend hours enjoying looking at wares and trinkets in the Central Market, as he didn't often get the chance to look at goods from faraway places. This merchant seemed to specialize in wooden accessories, intricately carved and painted. There were necklaces and bracelets made with small carved wooden beads, of various lenghts and sizes, some interspersed with precious stones. A delicate-looking pair of detailed wooden cuffs, almost the length of the forearm, and made from three different types of wood sat on a cushion as the centrepiece. Were they meant to be worn over the sleeve? Jonathan had never seen such a thing before.

Something else caught his eye in the sea of amulets. He picked up a round pendant, of small branches coiling around a rough-looking piece of bark that somehow glinted like metal. _Very odd._

"Ah, my lord has a good eye," the merchant said. "Oak wood and ironbark, very rare, very precious. A beautiful accessory, and powerful tool to ward off curses, made by the Dalish themselves! When the wood breaks into pieces, it means the wearer has been protected from a powerful curse," the merchant explained. Jonathan had never heard of ironbark before, but he wasn't very keen on asking this man for more information. Maybe Samahl would know. He'd have to ask him, if he ever got around to escaping this evening. Where would he even be waiting? What was he going to do anyway, sneak into the middle of the alienage, take off his hood and stare around? The whole thing just seemed like an increasingly bad idea the more he thought about it, but what was he going to do? If Samahl's interrogation had gone anywhere in the way his had, he was probably in need of reassurance as much as he had been. As he still was.

"Jonathan!", he heard Martyn call out loudly, suggesting it wasn't the first time he'd called him, and Jonathan flinched in surprise. He'd been staring at the pendant for a while.

"It's no matter, my lord! I'm glad the Trevelyans know how to appreciate good craftsmanship!", the merchant chimed in diplomatically.

Ilse chose the perfect moment to reappear.

"Oh there you are! Come on already, Aunt Ingrid moves faster than you!", Ilse grumbled and dragged them both after her.

Martyn tried to pull back from her death grip, "Hey, hey! Easy there, I'm trying not to step on your dress, thank you!"

Ilse paid no mind to the protests and made a beeline to a shop selling high-end fabrics. "I found a few things I want to take back with me and I wanted to see how they'd look on you two." As they entered the shop, the merchant waved them towards a changing room. As the guards went to follow dutifully, Ilse turned to them, "we'll only be a few minutes", and left them without an opportunity to protest.

Once she pulled the drapes to the cabin, the twins turned to Jonathan.

"Alright. Care to tell us what's going on?", said Martyn in a serious tone.

Jonathan was startled. He really should have known, if anyone would notice, it would be these two. He hoped the guards didn't have such keen awareness.

_All or nothing then._

"I need to get away for a bit," Jonathan whispered.

Ilse pulled the curtain partially and turned to talk loudly to the shop assistant, "Madam, may I get the teal one? No, the other one! The one you showed me before! With the checked pattern? Oh, was that the one?"

"Get away? Where are you going?", whispered Martyn under his sister's shrill voice.

Jonathan felt horrible to have to lie to them, but now was not the time. _If there would ever be time._ He told a different truth instead.

"To the port. I just... I need to be alone for a bit."

The shop assistant handed Ilse the fabrics, and she turned back to her brothers. "Alright, let's see what we can do here."

Martyn looked to Ilse with alarm, "I honestly don't know how much more sneaking around we can manage today," he said under his breath.

"Oh, I have a better idea!", she said loudly again, then lowered her voice, "You two will follow me."

Jonathan and Martyn looked at each other puzzled, but followed along. They waited as Ilse haggled for some burgundy chiffon she hadn't even tried, while the guards waited, looking increasingly impatient. Reyna finally joined them, done running her errands for the day, arms full of bags with groceries. Jonathan and Martyn distributed some to their own bags and waited. At last, Ilse paid, wishing the shop assistant a good day, and headed towards the Theatre Square. 

As they approached, they noticed a small crowd in front of the Opera House. Ilse sprinted forward, making her way past the people to look at the announcements board, her guard trying in vain to catch up.

"Hear, hear! The last performance of the season of "The Murder of Queen Madrigal"! Only a few seats remaining for this masterful performance! Last unmissable performance due to popular demand, made possible by the magnanimous generosity of the City Council!"

Seeing Ilse's bewildered joyfulness was not a surprise, given this was her favourite opera, but there was that subtle glint of mischief in her eyes made them catch on immediately.

"Oh, no! Not again!", Martyn protested vehemently, the first step of their performance. "You've seen that five times already, and you always drag me along! I am _not_ sitting through another one!"

Ilse pouted theatrically, "But it's been so long since I've seen it! It's rarely on when we visit Ostwick, and it will not be on at all once the Satinalia ceremonies start!"

Jonathan suspected it was their current performance rather than the following one that brought Ilse such enthusiasm. Their bickering usually went on until one of them got bored and she got her way. Cue his turn.

"Oh don't tell me you have something better to do for the evening, Martyn," he chimed in, and Ilse was positively glowing. Martyn feigned betrayal. "Reyna, would you like to join us?"

"M-me?", Reyna was surprised to be asked, and Jonathan noticed the guards giving each other amused looks. "I've never been to an opera before!"

"Exactly! About time you suffer through it with us I think!", replied Martyn.

"Oh I cannot wait!", Ilse said with genuine happiness, but she halted her excited pacing, remembering the guards. "Oh! Uhh... You three are welcome to take a break for a few hours. Have a seat somewhere," she giggled and looked to the guard who had been following her, who seemed a little worse for wear than the others.

Two of them seemed glad for the respite, but the last one seemed hesitant, "I'm sorry, my lady, but-"

"I see Lady von Millberg's guards chatting over there! She must be here too. Looks like you have some company while you wait!", Ilse said cheerfully, and that seemed to be the end of it.

*** 

It was strange for a handful of people to enter the opera with their arms full of groceries, they realised. They were approached by a puzzled-looking attendee, who showed them to a cloak room.

Martyn and Jonathan entered one of the rooms. As soon as the door was closed, Jonathan dropped the bag he was carrying and pulled out a set of clothes from underneath some carrots and potatoes.

"Oh, you're really serious about getting away aren't you?"

"Aren't _you_ tired of them tailing us like this?", Jonathan asked as he changed. "How much time have I got?"

"Well, The Murder of Queen Madrigal is, as you know, the slowest torture available here. How Ilse is so into it is beyond me. But it is roughly five hours long, and depending on how tough the crowd is tonight we might just manage enough excitement to get you an encore."

Jonathan had finished dressing in some simple dark linens, and was working on fastening his cloak. "I won't need that long, hopefully. And stop pretending you don't love it."

"Why must you invent such lies," Martyn sang in a very specific tune, and glared when Jonathan gave him a sly look, "Shut up."

Jonathan smiled and returned to dressing. When he looked up again however, the humour in Martyn's eyes was gone, replaced by apprehensiveness. "What?"

"It's just," he started, making no effort to hide his concern, "I'm suddenly having future visions of Lord Trevelyan holding my head on a plate if he were to ever find out about this. After he got his hands on you first, that is."

He couldn't blame his brother for being afraid. Jonathan did his best not to think about it, to preserve his little burst of courage.

"Don't tell me you're balking now."

"Since when have I ever stopped you from doing anything stupid?" he tried to say in a light tone, but didn't quite manage to convince himself, seeing as Jonathan didn't do stupid dangerous things all that often. "Jonathan, any other day, _Maker damnit_ , even a week ago I would have believed you would risk it for a walk down to the port. What would be the harm? But not today. Not after what happened. You know this, don't you?" 

And he did know this. He hadn't really expected them to buy it, but what could he do? Jonathan wanted to speak, to offer reassurances, but Martyn stopped him with a gesture.

"Listen, you don't need to tell me now. You don't even need to tell me when you come back tonight, or a month from now or whenever if you don't want to. But just know that we are waiting."

There was no judgement in his voice, only kind, calm understanding. Just like that, some of his nerves evaporated. He knew he could trust them.

"He won't find out," he said with a conviction that surprised him.

"Oh really? You've been training as a spy when I wasn't looking?"

This remark should not have given him pause. He was only doing what he had always done. He listened. Discovering potentially useful things was purely coincidental. But the secrets, the sneaking around, the pretending, these were all new. The answer was still no, but his pause did absolutely nothing to reassure Martyn.

"You're not confident in my abilities then," he tried to lift the mood.

"Are _you_? How are you even going to get out of here past Nadia's guards? They haven't gone anywhere, you know."

Jonathan had seen The Murder of Queen Madrigal before. He pulled the long hood of the cloak over his head. He had a plan now. Well, half a plan. Almost as good as a plan, really.

"As one of Queen Madrigal's assassins, of course."

Jonathan more heard than saw his brother's smile, "I expect something nice from the docks for our trouble."

***

Jonathan tried to look as in character as possible, as he struggled to find a corridor leading to the cast changing rooms. Normally, theatres had a backstage for their staff to come in and out unhindered. It should be the same for the Opera House too, he thought, and no one should bat an eye at one of the secondary actors passing through.

He entered a door into a hallway that seemed to lead to the back of the theatre, and he felt relief at hearing vocal warm-up exercises. The clamour of actors getting into costume grew louder, and it was as he expected. If he focused on keeping his head low and watching his feet, no one had the time to pay him any mind. The show was about to start, so wig-fixing, corset tightening, and impatient huffing were at their peak. He turned left when he saw the chance and walked down a small set of stairs stairs, spotting a door at the end. _Surely that must lead to the exit._

"You there!", someone shouted, running after him. "What the hell are you doing here? There's no time to waste! You're in the first scene, for pity's sake!"

Jonathan turned, still keeping his head low. Panic made him freeze. How could he have forgotten?! "I-"

A loud crash came from the hallway. The man turned to look and bolted, fuming, "Oh, for-! Be _careful_ with that you sodding piece of-"

Jonathan was already out the door.

***

The way to the port was a familiar one. As soon as he was out, he turned few turned corners and started his descent on the main road to the inner city gates. As the streets sloped down the hill, serpentine and slippery from the wet cobblestone, Jonathan had to be careful not to fall. When he reached the familiar stone arch and the large raven statues, he took one last look around before slipping out the gates.

The evening sun cast warm light on one side of every building, placing their contours in stark contrast with the deep shadows in between. Behind him, atop the hill, Ostwick’s Crown, the Teyrn’s Hold, sat tall and impressive, overlooking the city. Next to it, visible from any point, the high tower of the Chantry displayed its twin bells, shining and waiting to announce the end of the working day. Somewhere there, in their shadow, the Ostwick City Guard and the Templar Order joined the watchful array. Jonathan had somehow always felt their presence when he visited Ostwick. The feeling only heightened now, when he was purposefully trying to go unnoticed.

The Collar sat right below on a flat patch, all the noble houses neatly arranged around smaller squares and piazzas. Streets of the Collar were airy and well-spaced, housing the Ostwick Circle, the bustling Central Market, and a Theatre Square to rival the one in Markham. The generous space allowed large crowds to pass through unencumbered, and allowed the trade in Ostwick to flourish. Everyone who was somewhere in Ostwick during the day was either by the Central Market or by the port.

Now, the third and most populous part of the city was a different story altogether. Walking through the Belt meant constantly dodging the mud and frequent potholes, now filled puddles, as well as all the people swarming the streets.

The Belt housed everything, from merchants, craftsmen, artisans, smiths, bakers, servants and anything in between, and even a brothel on one of the less conspicuous alleys. But if its basic structure had in any way followed the neatness applied to the Collar, the order had long been lost under Ostwick’s rapidly growing population. The Belt had been crowded even before Ferelden was hit by the Blight, but once refugees started arriving, it became overflowing. Houses grew in height, with extra rooms added on top of old ones, skewed and now tilting rather dangerously. People shared a room, slept in shops, made tents in the streets. It was inevitably dirty.

_It’s a lot worse than it needs to be_ , Jonathan thought dismally, thinking of the wide streets and empty buildings of the Collar. _“The city is full,”_ the City Council had decreed years ago, but of course more room could always be found. Instead, they forced people to live in misery like this, living outside during winter, succumbing to lung disease, and thus making more room for others to suffer the same fate. 

It counted amongst the myriad list of reasons Jonathan didn't like to visit Ostwick. 

Jonathan continued along the main road, letting himself be occasionally swept in by the crowd and carried forward. Soon enough, he reached the main gate that lead to the port.

The population of Ostwick had long outgrown its city walls even before the influx from Ferelden, and that could be easily seen in the way new buildings had climbed up the outer walls like grape vines. The community around the port was a mix of tradesmen and sailors, prostitutes, wealthy ship owners and navy lieutenants with their families. The Navy Docks developed around the small keep to the east, kept exclusive to the sailors and their families.

By the port to the west, the out-quarter ran up right from the shore to the city walls. Where this had been the traditional place of the slums, it now welcomed those still in waiting to settle into Ostwick proper. But the situation in the city being as it was, those who had grown tired of waiting had started to build a small settlement there. From a distance, Jonathan could see the beginnings of a small market, a modest wooden Chantry, several shacks housing various services. There was a tanner, a butcher, a tailor, and most importantly, and a handy connection to the city’s biggest trade hub. And so, it was easy to see this settlement grow by the year, filling in the gap between the once strictly separate slums and the port.

The out-quarter community had grown so large and affluent enough that there had been talks within the City Council to add a new set of defence walls that would encompass both the old and the new: the navy residences, the slums, the out-quarter and the long due alienage. Sadly, one councillor’s idea of calling the new addition the “Out-Skirt” was promptly shut down by other bristling councillors, highly protective of their precious metaphor, and never brought up again. Or, at least not in the Council Chamber. Jonathan liked to read the papers.

There was still some time until sundown, so he decided to take his time wandering around the docks.

Ostwick’s port was by far his favourite part of the city. He enjoyed the bustle of the crowds, the warm smell of fresh fish buns from food stalls, the raucous laughter of the taverns that littered the seafront. Here, every other step revealed a small portrait of everyday life, one which Jonathan could admire casually, without purpose. He waited a moment to soak in the clamour, the tumult and the bustle, enjoying the freedom of being lost amongst the crowd. He felt alone at last, and after the last two days, it was a very welcome feeling.

He walked along the market stalls that were set by the docks, spending a few moments to look at the merchandise. While not as important a trade spot as Kirkwall, Ostwick saw its fair share of imported goods, especially Orlesian glasswork and Antivan leather. While the more high-end materials were reserved for Ostwick’s Central Market, here, at the port, you could mostly find supplies for weary travellers, stock points for ships, food, tools and small, cheekily-priced trinkets. 

A smaller, shabbier tent was crammed between two larger jewellery stalls. An old man sat down, crouched behind a small table. His face was littered with deep scars, and one eye was tightly shut, barely visible. Sand and salt clung to his tattered clothes, his white hair, his bare feet. Before him on the table were the largest, most beautifully coloured sea-shells Jonathan had ever seen. 

He approached and greeted. The man didn't say a word. Remembering Martyn’s demand of tribute from earlier, he decided this would probably make for a good gift. His eyes landed on two pieces in particular: a bracelet with small, round sea-shells both white and pink, gently woven together on a string, and a large flat shell that glinted in different colours with the light, tied in a green ribbon. _Ilse would destroy a bracelet like that in no time_ , he thought fondly. He got Martyn the bracelet, and Ilse the shell as a hair ornament.

After he paid, he went down to the beach and sat down, leaning one hand on the prickly sand, feeling the bits of shells dig into his palm. He took in a few deep breaths, letting the salt air in and out, trying to forget for a moment that there wasn’t much time to waste. Though it was difficult, he managed to sit back and enjoy the ability to hear his own thoughts once again.

He would only need to keep walking along the walls to eventually reach the alienage. Once there, he supposed Samahl would have thought of a way to find him. He was the one who sent the note, after all. It must have been fairly usual for humans to go there and visit… right? 

He had avoided asking himself too many questions, in fear of becoming disoriented beyond salvation and thus completely useless. But one question stubbornly swam to the surface as he tried to find some peace.

_And then, what?_

That was it, the one he couldn't avoid, and the hardest one to think about. What then? What if he spoke to Samahl and they confirmed what he already knew? What if Nadia found out who the attacker had been? What were they going to do with that, when clearly there was something out there, desperate for them to forget what they had seen? Would they climb up to the Ostwick City Guard and demand justice? Would anyone hear?

He fidgeted with the shells in his hand as he thought of Martyn and Ilse.

He had fought the urge to tell them many times today. He loathed the hiding and the lying. Especially to _them_ , his little brother and sister, who had never given him any reason to hide, who didn’t deserve this from him at all. The thought made him grimace, and he felt a heavy pang of guilt. He had paraded around all day as if everything was fine and made a mess of it. He had lied to them to their face and made a mess of it. And they still helped him, just as he knew they would, as they’ve always done.

_Back home._

He missed Darnaut something fierce. But he knew that, more than anything, he missed Darnaut from a week ago. When none of this had happened, when he hadn’t lied, hadn’t sneaked away in a desperate attempt to maintain his sanity, hadn’t set out to discover the start of a chain of undoubtedly horrible things.

What would he do now? He would get up, find the outer defence wall, and keep west.

_Nadia will know what to do_ , he acquiesced. He tried to ignore the tightening knot of worry in his belly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Murder of Queen Madrigal" is also the opera Trevelyan references during the Wicked Grace cutscene in Inquisition, if you have your Inquisitor tell a story.


	5. Foolish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sitting on this one for a while until I felt like it did what I needed it to do. 
> 
> In which there are consequences for one's actions :)

It was crucial that Jonathan paid attention to his surroundings, to avoid getting lost on his return to the Collar in the evening. He'd looked over a detailed map the day before, trying to get a general sense of direction, but the city had last been mapped before the influx from Ferelden, so while the layout mostly remained intact, it'd become a lot harder to distinguish points of reference. As he was mapping the surroundings, he absent-mindedly placed a hand where the inner pocket of his cloak was, feeling the smooth outline of the hilt of a pocket knife. His stomach turned into a knot for a brief second, interrupting his focus.

_It won't come to that_ , and he berated himself for thinking such things in the first place. He'd walked the streets of Ostwick plenty of times before, alone or otherwise, with or without a weapon. This was nothing different, just a new area to explore. Just a walk. The knife was just a precaution. And now it certainly wasn't the time to get distracted when he needed to keep looking around for possible landmarks.

_There's an easy one_ , he noted, as the top branches of a large oak tree made themselves visible from below the rooftops.

As he walked towards it, he tried to remember the layout of the streets - Which of them were likely to open out into the alienage market square? Which went along the wall right to the gates connecting the alienage to the city? Which side of the tree faced the gates? 

After having mentally mapped the streets to his satisfaction, he relaxed a little, starting to notice the finer details. At first glance, he couldn't tell where the slums ended and the alienage begun, with houses of similar styles, humans and elves alike roaming the streets. But as he walked further and further down the street, the space started to feel more like its own enclave. Where the slums were consistently poorly built, with shabby shacks lining uneven dirt roads, houses in the alienage featured a lot of variety. Some houses were older, larger, where some wealth had gotten enough time to accumulate. The newer ones seemed smaller, squeezed in-between what was already there. New floor levels with wood of lighter colour were built on top of old clay buildings, much like he had seen in the Belt. Some of the buildings had visible spots of new plaster that were waiting to be painted over, where the old one had crumbled and fallen due to moisture. Some of the homes even fitted glass panels as window embellishments, but only very rarely and only for one or two at a time. While the city of Ostwick liked to boast with its novelty and structure, the alienage wore its history out in plain sight – _‘we have been here for a while’_ , it seemed to tell its visitors.

The road Jonathan followed lead out into a bustling open market, with various everyday goods offered for sale at merchant stalls: a few grocers, craftsmen selling various wood and copper household items, and even a tavern with a few tables set outside in the sun, where people gathered to talk about their day. 

But the centrepiece was far too impressive not to steal the focus of Jonathan's scrutiny. In the centre of the square, surrounded by a carefully trimmed patch of greenery, sat a massive and imposing oak tree. Jonathan knew from his readings that the elves in human cities honoured the oak as sacred, though he did not remember why. _Now what was its name?_

Seeing it in real life was just as impressive as it was made out to be in the literature. The tree stood very tall, taller than even the outer walls, full of knots and wrinkles as if it were the oldest remnant of a forest that had long since vanished. Perhaps it was. Colourful cloth embroidered with various unknown symbols hung from its branches, some of them new, in deep, rich dyes, some of them slightly tattered at the edges and bleached by the sun. Candle stubs littered the floor around it, melting together in a crust between the roots. _Well that must be a fire hazard._

Jonathan could but admire. His admiration didn't go unnoticed however, and the more he lingered, the more eyes he felt on him. Even with the hood on, his stature marked him as very obviously human. Jonathan felt anxious as he was weighing the possibility of having committed a grave offense by coming here in the first place and staring everywhere like a fool. Perhaps humans were not seen around these parts much? At all? That couldn't be right, he would have heard of it if that were the case.

Elves eyed him suspiciously, and the wish to melt into the ground and disappear became more and more pronounced. Feeling so many eyes on him was never pleasant, especially in an unfamiliar place like this. He wandered around awkwardly, looking out for a better spot to wait, all the while glancing left and right for Samahl. _Where the hell is he?_

Jonathan turned abruptly on his heels when he spotted a group of elves by the tavern openly staring, but with is sight in disadvantage from the hood, he collided with someone by a merchant's stall. Jonathan staggered, his hood falling off. The elf he had managed to bother turned to him with a scowl. _Oh great, so much for being unnoticed_ , not that it was going splendidly before.

"I-I'm sorry, serah. I didn't see you," he managed to utter, trying his best not to provoke anything. He'd never had a reason to think he'd be bad at this before, but _Maker_ was he bad at this!

The anger on the elf's face filed quickly to confusion, then to amusement, and after a moment of awkward silence, he burst into laughter.

Jonathan sighed, relieved.

The elf took a deep breath, "Oh, Creators! Ever seen a _shem_ scared shitless like this before?", he said to the merchant, who returned the laugh. "Right, no harm done, _serah_."

"He looks lost," said a familiar voice. _Oh thank the Maker, finally!_

Samahl walked towards them, looking at him curiously. "Evening," he said to the other two.

"Oh look who's finally come out! Missed the fresh air?", said the merchant.

"Only the food," Samahl laughed weakly, glancing at his bag, and then turned to the neglected Jonathan. "I'll show you to wherever you need to go, serah."

Jonathan was struck dumb for a moment. It was shocking, seeing him like this - out in the open, in the dimming daylight, looking pale and almost dead on his feet, so drastically different from the cheerful, laid-back young man from merely two nights ago. It felt like years had passed since they last saw each other, and how could that possibly be? This startling contrast, this anomaly of time set Jonathan's very carefully contained bubble of worries into a frenzy - _It's all real_.

So far, he'd been too busy with logistics to be too aware of the reason for this escapade, to feel the _reality_ of it. What happened had really happened. They were living the consequences. _Facing those consequences starts now._

"Thank you," he eventually responded, and nodded a goodbye to the other two.

He followed Samahl down into one of the streets, grateful to finally have a guide, and careful not to attract any more attention.

"Subtle," Samahl teased once they were out of earshot.

"You kept me waiting," Jonathan admonished in turn.

"Hmm, yes I did. I apologise."

After that, they walked in silence. The streets were emptying by the minute, people returning to their homes as the spaces they left filled with shadows. Jonathan paid attention to the surrounding streets, trying to commit as much as he could to memory so he could find his way back later. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Samahl looking around as well. He seemed oddly alert, despite the dark circles under his eyes. Did he expect someone to be watching them? Jonathan hadn’t thought about the possibility of being followed outside of their family’s guards.

Jonathan took a moment to study him. Even compared to the evening of the wedding, after a full working day, Samahl looked a lot worse for wear. His long hair was haphazardly pulled back in a half ponytail, the ends of his hair slightly tangled. His frame was tense, jumpy at any sudden noise. His clothes were covered with patches of damp dirt in places - _where did he get that from?_

They walked and kept walking, out to a street that couldn’t have been far from the edge of the settlement, tall clay buildings looking newer, more plain, clean clay and less ragtag. They entered one of the buildings, and Samahl opened the door to his home.

If Jonathan had believed all the horror stories shared among distinguished company about the grime and filth of the alienages, he would have been downright shocked at the pristine state of Samahl’s home, modest as it was. Fortunately, he had Reyna’s stories of her time in the alienage had put a damper on the excess those stories often used. Samahl’s rooms were actually bigger than he expected – there were two of them, for one, his bedchamber separated from his kitchen. Everything you would expect in a regular home was there - a cosy-looking fireplace, a table with chairs, cupboards, and several chests for storage. On a desk to the side sat a small pile of crumpled paper, next to some candle stubs. The room smelled strongly of dried herbs - Samahl seemed to keep a few bunches hanging from the walls – mint, elfroot, basil – quite a few more from the smell of it, but it was too dark for Jonathan to have a proper look.

As if reading his mind, Samahl set about lighting a fire.

“Welcome to my humble home – no, don’t sit on _that_ , bad leg – are you cold? - sorry for the mess - tea?”

Samahl’s movements were a little erratic, voice somewhat strained, just a shade too loud. “Don’t trouble yourself,” said Jonathan, trying to diffuse the elf’s worry. He got a strained laugh in reply. _Mixed results?_

“I’m making some anyway, my lord,” he said politely, and “calms the nerves…”, quieter.

“Then yes, please.”

While Samahl fidgeted around the room preparing tea, Jonathan turned his attention towards a painting on the opposite wall. He noticed white paint forming twisting, serpentine shapes on the better part of the clay wall. They all connected to a central source that looked like a lit brazier, its tendrils flickering with light and shadow as Samahl lit the hearth behind him. Samahl interrupted his ogling by reaching for two elfroot leaves in the corner. He set two cups in the table and placed a leaf in each one.

“I’ll just – once it’s boiled, let these steep for a bit. They’ll work wonders.”

“Thank you,” Jonathan said, and waited for the elf to sit down. “The painting behind you, does it mean anything?”, Jonathan started conversationally. Maybe if he could put his worries aside for a minute, build the illusion that this was just a casual visit, it would diffuse some of the awkwardness.

Samahl shifted in his chair to look at his mural, seeming to draw a little comfort from it at least, as his shoulders sagged with a sigh. _Progress._

“Ah, it’s my attempt at a shrine to Sylaise. My sorry attempt. It’s still missing a lot of embellishments, I should be ashamed." 

“Well, I’m afraid they’d be lost on me, anyway.”

That earned him a more relaxed laugh, “Yes, I suppose they would.” Samahl glanced up to him, meeting his eyes with genuine curiosity this time, “Do you know anything of our gods, my lord?”

Jonathan could recall a few names. Their elven servants had mentioned them in passing, in more or less flattering ways, and Reyna liked to tell stories of them sometimes while doing her chores. Jonathan just liked to listen. He remembered the names he'd heard in those stories much better than what he'd read in his studies. But then again, why take away the opportunity? “Not much. I’m afraid you’ll have to teach me.”

Samahl seemed happily surprised, and was content to distract both of them with a brief explanation of the elven pantheon. It was clear that he cared, from the reverence in his voice. Jonathan listened carefully as Samahl went through each of the gods, spending a bit of extra time explaining the lore behind Sylaise, her connection to fire and to the medicinal herbs he kept on the wall. They were both invested in the elf’s lecture when Samahl suddenly noticed the gurgling of the boiling water.

“Ah, blighted - !”, he cursed, and moved to grab a piece of cloth. He brought the kettle over, pouring the boiling water equally into the cups, steam hissing as it touched the hot metal edges. “There’s still some left, by some miracle”.

They sat down, waiting for their drinks to cool down a little. Samahl had a sip first, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, his features visibly more relaxed. So much of his last few days has been clouded by thoughts of what happened that Jonathan wanted this illusion of normalcy to hold for just a few more minutes, for both their sakes. At least until the drink could take effect. "Samahl, do you know what ‘ironbark’ is?"

"Oh? A sudden interest in Dalish culture, my lord?", Samahl teased, but seemed not to mind Jonathan's curiosity.

"It's just, I found this pendant in the Central Market. The merchant said it was rare, made by the Dalish to ward off curses. He said if it breaks, it's fulfilled its purpose."

"Made by the Dalish, was it? And him selling it?", he mocked, laughing incredulously. "He said ironbark _breaks_? Idiot bastard made it himself, I bet! Sodding scammers! My lord, if it breaks, it's shit work. I hope you didn't waste your coin on that rubbish."

Jonathan mentally thanked Ilse for intervening before he could even consider buying it as a gift for Samahl. "Thought it sounded strange,” he said. He had a sip of the tea Samahl made and gave a contented sigh as he felt his muscles relax. _What is in this stuff?_

Samahl looked at him curiously. "While we're on the subject, you _did_ do the ritual when you entered the alienage, didn't you?”

That caught Jonathan off guard, and his drink went down the wrong way. "What?”, he managed to choke out between coughs.

"You didn't just march in like nobility, right? You paid your respects to the vhenandahl?"

_Oh no._ "T-to what??"

"The vhenandahl! The massive sacred oak? Couldn’t have missed it! Please tell me you bowed and danced around it three times when you entered!"

It took a second for Jonathan’s face to turn from panicked mortification into a scowl, but that second had Samahl clutching his chair with laughter.

"Oh come on, it's too funny!", he said, wiping tears from his eyes. "What is it with you shems and Dalish curses, anyway? We aren't so bad!"

Alright, maybe he deserved it a little. Humans pinning their misfortunes on unknown elven curses was commonplace, and he did sort of set himself up for it. _At least he laughed_ , Jonathan thought a little sulkily, but couldn't help a little chuckle of his own.

Something else in the sentence caught his attention, however. Samahl's accent had never sounded anything other than Ostwicker to him. "You're Dalish?"

Laughter subsided, and Samahl looked to the side, reminiscing. "Yes. I came here from Ferelden during the Blight. After my clan died.” There was a pause as Samahl reminisced. “I was too young to have my vallaslin when I left though, if that's what you're wondering. That's usually what people wonder."

_The_ _tattoos_ , Jonathan guessed. He watched Samahl think, seeming to consider whether he should continue. He did not.

"I'm so sorry," was all Jonathan could say. He hoped his empathy would reach the elf, even if no known language had yet invented condolences that didn't feel lacking in some way.

"It's alright now. A lot of people here lost family at that time. Brings a lot of us closer together, I suppose."

"You have many friends from Ferelden then?"

"Most of my friends are from Ferelden. Ostwickers feel a little crowded with us here, you see," he said a little piqued. "I knew the other two, you know? The ones who went missing? Dea’en and Semir. They were brothers, also here from Ferelden. Met them on my first week here."

And with that, the mood fell completely, settling like still water, and the reality Jonathan had tried to temporarily avoid started taking shape around them once again. Now, there was no illusion to separate them from their brewing worries, and they each fell into a contemplative silence, seeping in it anew like the leaf in their tea.

It was Samahl who broke the silence.

"Tell me I didn't imagine it all?"

He sounded broken and weary, in a way Jonathan could very well recognise. It made him want to reach out, so he did. He placed a hand on one of Samahl’s arms folded on the table and clutching his cup of tea.

"You didn't," Jonathan responded, somehow both reassuring and regretful, having to confirm the terrible reality they had both witnessed.

When Samahl let out a bitter laugh, Jonathan felt it in his bones, remembering all too well what it meant to be desperately clinging to your own sanity. "I thought I did, you know, for a few hours, the next day. That it must have been some nightmare, that I'll see my friends at the tavern later. But then I found the damned garnet in my pocket, and it all came back to haunt me..."

Samahl lifted his gaze then, and where Jonathan expected to find weariness and exhaustion, he found anything but. The elf's eyes were pinned on him with a strange, cold sharpness, eyebrows knit into a frown, mouth curled down as if chewing on something bitter.

"Why did you come here to see me anyway? You have nothing to do with this anymore!"

Jonathan winced at the outburst and pulled his hand back. _Resentment? But why?_

“What are you saying? You’re the one who sent for me!”

"Didn't think you'd come,” came the honest answer as the elf looked away. “Why would you, when you’ve been so very neatly removed from this? The mess is swept under the rug and the elves blamed, _as usual_.” Anger seeped through Samahl's voice, breaking it into a growl, “I just wanted to send that cursed pin back! Get you out of it entirely, before they asked anything more - that note was – I don’t know what came over me...”

_I think I might_ , Jonathan thought to himself while Samahl took a few calming breaths. _But I have to ask..._

“Samahl,” he started, waiting for permission to continue. When the elf turned to him expectantly, he continued, “What did you mean when you said I have nothing to do with it? I _was_ there.”

"Not according to Hondt, you weren't. And so, not according to the City Guard."

“What – but how? I was an interrogated suspect!”

Were this the lengths his family had gone to? Not only dispel the suspicions for murder, but remove him from the investigation entirely? His grandfather’s reaction had seemed appropriate if Jonathan’s involvement in the whole ordeal ended up tarnishing their family’s good name, but now? What did he have to do so they remained untouched?

_I don't understand._

Why did Hondt, unprompted, decide to leave him out of it? Why would the guards agree? For how much? Did they have an interest in seeing the attacker remain anonymous? Had the culprit been one of them?

He pressed on, "What did they ask you during the interrogation?"

Samahl’s anger had faded, but he spoke as if every word tasted like tar, like a wildfire leaving scorched earth behind. "They asked me nothing, _my lord_. But they _told_ me Hondt found me in the chamber with Mariol, standing over the dead body. That I'd stayed behind with _her_ , and that some thugs from the alienage apparently chose that night to get their revenge for some petty theft, and things got out of hand. That it’d be the only story I’ll be telling, least I need another _‘questioning’_ later on. I knew better than to argue."

With this revelation, what should have been so obvious now hit Jonathan with full force.

_They don't even care!_

It wasn't only shifting the blame on the elves. It wasn't just getting the Trevelyans and the Bayarts out of this investigation. There was no investigation!

_I don't understand._

Outrage and confusion mixed together in his gut, and he looked around as if trying to find some sense to it all. "Maker’s breath! Why would they do this? People are missing! There must be something more! Did they say nothing else?"

"You think I listened past the part where they let me go?"

"We can't just leave it like this!", Jonathan yelled, and immediately knew it was the wrong thing to do.

Samahl rose and let out an incredulous laugh. He paced around the room for a bit, trying to reconcile his temper. " _We_ can't? And why in the name of your damned _Maker_ can't we? Are you a fool?! Apart from you, who would believe me? Other elves? And _you_ weren't even there, remember!", he laughed bitterly, defeatedly, and sagged back into his chair. "People outside your precious Collar go missing all the time. New fortnight, new missing report. It is done. It's over and behind us. Just tell me what we both saw is true and it's enough. I've been losing my bloody mind!"

Jonathan had been unfair, he knew. Now enlightened by these revelations, why _wouldn't_ the elf be mad at him? It wasn't he who had been threatened. It wasn't he whose friends had gone missing. But even then, Jonathan could not shake the apprehension over how wrong this all felt. Even then, how could it be this easy for Samahl to want to let go of the truth?

"Is that all you called me here for? Reassurance?", Jonathan said, not at all knowing what he was looking for, but prodding further, nonetheless.

"I told you, I didn't think you'd come," the elf responded apologetically this time, "though I suppose I should have known you're reckless way below your station."

The words of Lord Trevelyan from only a day ago echoed back to him, but this time he felt no scorn behind them. If he used his imagination just a smidgen, he could almost hear a little fondness in Samahl's voice.

Samahl sat down at the table and had another sip of tea. It must have grown cold already, but the elf sighed deeply, looking calmer. The weight in the air lifted around them, replaced by a kinship that can only be felt with people that had gone through the same horrible nightmarish ordeal together. 

Samahl seemed thoughtful. "Since you're here, there's something..." he trailed off, turning to look at the bag he had brought with him from the market. "Mariol had family. Her father and her baby brother. I haven't left the house in days, haven't talked to them…” The guilt in his voice made Jonathan ache with sympathy. After a moment, he continued, “They shouldn't live with this bizarre lie of how she died, so I’m going to see them tomorrow."

Jonathan felt a pang thinking of the terrible burden resting on Samahl’s shoulders. He watched him get up and reach into his leather bag, pulling out handfuls of colourful wildflowers. After carefully setting all of them on the table, the elf sat down, counting each flower, setting aside the ones that had wilted, and braiding them into smaller bunches. _Even number, for a funeral._

"Hold this," Samahl said, and handed Jonathan a cedar branch, working on tying the bunches around it with some worn-looking linen.

In the end, Samahl looked disappointed with his own handiwork, "Can't get the blasted bow to look right."

Jonathan suddenly had an idea.

"Hold them and let me?", he said, handing the bouquet to Samahl. 

He patted his hip to find his leather pouch. From inside, the pulled the green silk ribbon attached to Ilse's hair ornament. _She already has plenty._

Jonathan found the middle of the ribbon and fixed some of the bunches to sit more evenly around the branch. 

"Cedar?", he asked as he set to work, wrapping the ribbon around the bouquet twice and then carefully weaving it into a pattern.

"The real reason I was late. Took me the better part of the day to find a tree like this. Not many that grow around the shore. Some of the flowers died on the way, too, what a shame..." 

Samahl watched him work, something bleak setting into his voice as he continued talking. "We Dalish bury it with our dead to help guide the soul into the Beyond. Mariol's family takes to the human customs, but this is my own little offering." 

Jonathan listened to his words wither away, the weight of the gesture suddenly lowering over his shoulders like a cape of lead. He remembered what little he’d seen of Mariol, and he let sadness and remorse slow down his movements. He felt grief in the tips of his fingers, as he worked the silk into a pattern almost with ceremony. 

Once Jonathan finished tying the bow on top of his braiding, Samahl studied it, lightly tracing a finger over the interwoven strands.

"And this is _your_ little offering."

_It is nothing,_ he wanted to say. How could something so minute even compare to hours of searching in the wilderness? And how could this handful of flowers, however well-intentioned, offer any comfort to a grieving parent? Nevertheless, it felt right to have done it, and he felt a little lighter for it.

Samahl once again fell into contemplative silence. The awareness of time sat nagging at the back of Jonathan’s mind, however, and he reminded himself that his time away from his family, however generous, was running out.

He placed his hands gently on top of Samahl’s wrists to make him look up.

Jonathan had seen enough, had heard enough. In his frown and the firmness of his grip was resolve. “I’ll find out who is responsible for this. I promise.”

Samahl shook his head at him, not seeming reassured at all. Jonathan found it odd. Surely, he had proven that he was trustworthy, that he cared, that he didn't say things like this lightly. But Samahl only looked at him with pity.

“Whatever it is you want to do here, keep me out of it. I have more to lose than you.”

Jonathan nodded with regret. They had gone through the same nightmare, but they were not the same, no matter how many moments they stole to pretend to be. But if Samahl did not want answers, Jonathan at least needed to find out, to understand, for his own peace of mind. 

He felt exhaustion slowly settle into his bones. It was time to go home, rest, think on his own for a while.

"I should go. It's getting late."

"Where are they waiting for you?"

"They...who?", Jonathan responded dully.

"The people you came with?" But when that didn't seem to clarify things for Jonathan, it dawned on Samahl instead. "Please, _please_ tell me you did not come here _alone_ , and expect to return at night _alone_."

"I..." _Hadn't considered that a potential problem,_ he didn't say. "There was no one I could have asked," he did say, which was also true, but he still felt like a right idiot.

"Do you have a weapon on you at least? A map?"

"A pocket knife. I'm fine without the map." After all, he had memorized the way, and never once got lost out hunting through the forests of Darnaut. Ostwick shouldn't be a challenge.

"At night, on unfamiliar streets, and with all points of reference in complete darkness? You visit Ostwick at night often, _my lord_?", Samahl said, clearly finding this ludicrous.

_My lord_ , he had said, but it definitely sounded closer to ' _you fool'_. And rightfully so.

"I... Really hadn't thought of that,” he had to admit. Jonathan felt awkward as the elf’s eyes stared at him with incredulity. Samahl chuckled and shook his head as he went to the table to pick up a lump of charcoal from among a few bits of crumpled paper. "Come here, then."

Jonathan approached and let him take his left hand, palm facing up. Samahl started to draw careful lines and dots along his palm, as small as it was possible while still being discernible. It tickled like mad, but Jonathan tried not to flinch. He ended up stifling a laugh, and Samahl smirking, starting to do it on purpose.

When he was done, he set the coal down. "It's facing your way. The dots are the turns you should take. I trust you'll be fine when you reach the Collar, yes?"

"Thank you," said Jonathan, but Samahl hadn't dropped his hand still. He took in a soft breath as Samahl traced his thumb along the edge of his palm to his wrist.

"Or you could stay? It's getting late."

There was something else in his voice this time, something Jonathan had not yet heard tonight. Samahl looked right at him, amber eyes bright and warm, inviting. He hadn't really spent any time really admiring Samahl's features last time, in the dark and hurried as they had been. But here, in the silence and privacy of his home...

But the air held nothing like the sort of harmless playfulness that had brought them together the first time. This was charged with a need, not to pass the time, not to have a little fun away from prying eyes, but purely and fundamentally for _comfort_. A moment of shelter, for two people who, in this particular circumstance, stood facing the world from the same side.

And it was _tempting_.

Jonathan spoke carefully, a bit breathless, "If I stay, they'll notice I'm missing. And if they find me here, there will be a lot of trouble."

"The same would happen if they found you dead in a ditch, too," Samahl countered, moving closer, hand shifting to his forearm, fingers pressing in firmer.

Jonathan swallowed, feeling pulled in, fighting to keep a clear head. _The longer I stay, the more of a danger I am._ He thought out the sentence in its entirety, to convince himself. "I really must risk this one," he said finally, and Samahl relented, chuckling as he took a step back.

"A risk-taker, huh?", and it sounded like _'fool'_ again.

"A fool," Jonathan agreed out loud, smiling down at his hand map. Samahl laughed then, a bit delighted and a bit hysterical at the absurdity of it all. He then took a quick step back into Jonathan's space once and planted a quick kiss on his lips. It was over as soon as it began, and Samahl smiled at Jonathan's startled face. "Don't smudge it, then."

He turned towards the door to grab his cloak, "I'll lead you to the gates, but I can't go further. The streets aren't particularly kind to meandering elves at night."

***

It had been night for hours, and most people were already somewhere inside, be it in their home or a tavern. The cold didn't allow for much promenading around at night, and that if it weren't already for the rampant crime and theft, as Samahl had pointedly mentioned on their way to back the open market. While the city had extended extremely quickly, authorities had taken a longer time to adjust to the new demand. Samahl had not exaggerated when he said the streets were dangerous at night, and the silence in the streets not even close to midnight was testament to that. Jonathan hoped he could be quick. He found comfort in feeling the shape of the knife in his pocket as he roamed the streets.

_“Until next time”_ , Samahl had said to him when they parted, and he allowed himself to be distracted by that thought for a moment before he walked past the alienage gates into the Belt.

_No guards. How odd. Maybe there’s something happening elsewhere,_ he tried to reassure himself, but despite the absence of anyone around, he felt an unsettling prickling sensation of being watched.

He looked up on a whim and spotted a pair of curious eyes watching him from a window. They glinted yellow in the dark, perfectly round, catching a thread of candlelight. He clutched the knife and walked on, feeling his pulse quicken. He hurried his steps, on the brink of running but not quite. He saw himself alone in the street, but the street did not feel empty at all.

Jonathan turned a dark corner, and from then he had no more time to think before he felt someone pushing him against a wall, arm pressing tight against his throat. He couldn't see the silent cloaked figure holding him up, couldn't move away. He instinctively brought his hands near his abdomen, catching the dagger just in time. He grabbed the blade close to the hilt, pushed against it with both hands, feeling it slice into his fingers. He pushed as hard as he could, the dagger quavering in the air between him and the attacker, closer, _closer still_ as the attacker dug their heels into the ground.

His grip was slipping. He couldn't breathe. He felt the dagger poking at his clothes, the arm on his neck pushed harder.

A shout to his right. A figure fallen to the ground with a yell and a gurgle. The attacker holding him looked away.

Jonathan seized the moment to try and push, freeing his breath, but he couldn't put more than a step between them.

Something tilted back the attacker's head. Jonathan saw a flash of steel against flesh, then blood streaming out, spilling on clothes. The attacker fell to the ground. Standing right in front of him was a hooded figure, cloaked by shadows.

Fear froze him in place. Two people dead. It could have been him. It was almost him.

It could still be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you spotted a reference, virtual cookie for you! :)))

**Author's Note:**

> Exposition, expositionnn...


End file.
